‘Naked, spitting, pissing dude’ shuts down 16th Street BART

What a move!

What a photo!

Wow!

UPDATE: Bianca on our Facebook timeline gives us a more complete version of the story…

Wasn’t that “amusing” as you are despicting it. Just saying. Just left 16 and Mission Bart station and as I was approching the ticket exit, a completely naked man with his penis hard was backing a woman coming from work I assume against a wall and he threw her down to the ground. Someone tried to stop him and he ended up throwing the guy to the ground and then got on the ticket exit/entrance thing and squatted over for everyone to see his anus and then and then and then….. the point is that no one could control the situation and then he started going after an older man and had him by the neck. He was obviously on PCP since he was so strong and out of it ( i think???)) wtf! Everyone ran out and no one could help. I heard “the police were on their way” but we all ended up getting out of there. I didn’t stick around. Thank god my kids weren’t with me. Sad world and fucked up people. Fuck 16th/Mission Bart. At your own risk!

Apologies for taking the wrong tone.

[Photo by Marc Huestis via The Bold Italic on Facebook]

139 Responses to “‘Naked, spitting, pissing dude’ shuts down 16th Street BART”

  1. Jen says:

    It wasn’t funny! He was attacking a woman and then an old man… It was scary.

    • Mike H says:

      Comedy = Tragedy + Time

      The question is how long that time is.

      And in all fairness, your comment is the only thing I see on this page referencing it being funny.

      • MAB says:

        The post doesn’t show the part where he stuck his dick in an old guys face or humped a screaming girl until she fell on the ground. He disnt stop until someone pulled him off of her.

        Probably why she said that… Were you there too?

      • Jen says:

        Funny? What? JEN?

    • F says:

      This was not funny, or fun. It was terrifying. He attacked several women and attempted to take a few hand bags. And it took the cops OVER 20 minutes to get there. Where the hell were they??? Seriously we were unable to exit the station at one point and were hiding in the bart ticket booth.

      • Blahblah says:

        Cops? They are worthless. Wake up. You live in a society that is controlled by the media, not by the police.

        • Diane landers says:

          If cops are so worthless, why call them? Why don’t you handle the situation, oh wait ….you were to busy running away….Cowards!

          • Miss415 says:

            Easy for you to sit there talking smack from a keyboard (or touch screen). A typical person has no idea what to do or how to react until confronted w/a dangerous situation. Besides, distancing oneself from danger is a smart, rational thing to do, especially when one is aware of the limitations of his or her abilities. Cops are not supposed to be worthless but in SF, the good ones are out numbered by ones that are either lazy or corrupt.

          • Soonerdiver says:

            This is just another reason to allow citizens to ‘conceal carry’! Trust me a .45 to this clowns testicles would have stopped him in his tracks! And if guns are not your thing then think abut a steel, collapsible baton!!

          • Herr Doktor Professor Deth Vegetable says:

            I am so, so glad to live someplace with relatively sane gun laws, so I don’t have to worry about fucking hoplophiles popping off shots willy-nilly. Gun-nuts are the worst.

          • Eddy says:

            Where were the police Bart when this was happening for while? Bart police should be present on site at all bart stations. This drama could have been avoided if the Bart is taking security measures seriously and not putting people life in danger. A stupid ho is terrorising everyone in the whole station, that’s just akward!
            Do you know where is he from or if they took a video of him.
            You should have a tool of defending yours self at all the time these days, the world is becoming scary. I bought a pepper spray and electrical shock gun!

          • kz zoro says:

            Response to Soonerdiver,

            Dude, you don’t shoot a guy in the dick. Thats not cool. Don’t advocate shooting guys in the dick.

          • Lin says:

            BART has their own internal police force, and the SFPD is like 2 blocks away. I’m not quick to criticize police, but 20 minutes? Also, the average person should not be “handling” a person on PCP, and that doesn’t make them cowards. That makes them sane.

        • jim x says:

          Oh, come on.
          Did the Media put this freakazoid in cuffs and haul him out of there?
          Please.

      • Pantmaker says:

        Here in Arizona that guy would have been shot by citizens within minutes. That was difficult to watch knowing that lunatic was free to do whatever he wanted. That should never be the case for innocent people.

        • Mike says:

          Yea, along with a couple other citizens too, probably.

        • Attorney says:

          Are you insane Arizona? You should be ashamed for bragging that an unarmed man would be shot in your state. This deranged person should have been wrestled to the ground and restrained, but it would be ILLEGAL to shoot him.

        • russianriver says:

          “If it all has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, if I really had a certain and definite object, how is it I did not even glance into the purse and don’t know what I had there, for which I have undergone these agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this base, filthy degrading business? And here I wanted at once to throw into the water the purse together with all the things which I had not seen either… how’s that?”
          Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all before, and it was not a new question for him, even when it was decided in the night without hesitation and consideration, as though so it must be, as though it could not possibly be otherwise…. Yes, he had known it all, and understood it all; it surely had all been settled even yesterday at the moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the jewel-cases out of it…. Yes, so it was.
          “It is because I am very ill,” he decided grimly at last, “I have been worrying and fretting myself, and I don’t know what I am doing…. Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I have been worrying myself…. I shall get well and I shall not worry…. But what if I don’t get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!”
          He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A new overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him every moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred. All who met him were loathsome to him—he loathed their faces, their movements, their gestures. If anyone had addressed him, he felt that he might have spat at him or bitten him….
          He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, near the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. “Why, he lives here, in that house,” he thought, “why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here it’s the same thing over again…. Very interesting to know, though; have I come on purpose or have I simply walked here by chance? Never mind, I said the day before yesterday that I would go and see him the day after; well, and so I will! Besides I really cannot go further now.”
          He went up to Razumihin’s room on the fifth floor.
          The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the moment, and he opened the door himself. It was four months since they had seen each other. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on his bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise.
          “Is it you?” he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a brief pause, he whistled. “As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you’ve cut me out!” he added, looking at Raskolnikov’s rags. “Come sit down, you are tired, I’ll be bound.”
          And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was in even worse condition than his own, Razumihin saw at once that his visitor was ill.
          “Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?” He began feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.
          “Never mind,” he said, “I have come for this: I have no lessons…. I wanted,… but I don’t really want lessons….”
          “But I say! You are delirious, you know!” Razumihin observed, watching him carefully.
          “No, I am not.”
          Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to Razumihin’s, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friend face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of all disposed for at that moment was to be face to face with anyone in the wide world. His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at himself as soon as he crossed Razumihin’s threshold.
          “Good-bye,” he said abruptly, and walked to the door.
          “Stop, stop! You queer fish.”
          “I don’t want to,” said the other, again pulling away his hand.
          “Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this is… almost insulting! I won’t let you go like that.”
          “Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could help… to begin… because you are kinder than anyone—cleverer, I mean, and can judge… and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at all… no one’s services… no one’s sympathy. I am by myself… alone. Come, that’s enough. Leave me alone.”
          “Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all I care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don’t care about that, but there’s a bookseller, Heruvimov—and he takes the place of a lesson. I would not exchange him for five lessons. He’s doing publishing of a kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circulation they have! The very titles are worth the money! You always maintained that I was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fools than I am! Now he is setting up for being advanced, not that he has an inkling of anything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of the German text—in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discusses the question, ‘Is woman a human being?’ And, of course, triumphantly proves that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as a contribution to the woman question; I am translating it; he will expand these two and a half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous title half a page long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! He pays me six roubles the signature, it works out to about fifteen roubles for the job, and I’ve had six already in advance. When we have finished this, we are going to begin a translation about whales, and then some of the dullest scandals out of the second part of Les Confessions we have marked for translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was a kind of Radishchev. You may be sure I don’t contradict him, hang him! Well, would you like to do the second signature of ‘Is woman a human being?’ If you would, take the German and pens and paper—all those are provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles in advance on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for your share. And when you have finished the signature there will be another three roubles for you. And please don’t think I am doing you a service; quite the contrary, as soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to begin with, I am weak in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes utterly adrift in German, so that I make it up as I go along for the most part. The only comfort is, that it’s bound to be a change for the better. Though who can tell, maybe it’s sometimes for the worse. Will you take it?”
          Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three roubles and without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in astonishment. But when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the stairs to Razumihin’s again and laying on the table the German article and the three roubles, went out again, still without uttering a word.
          “Are you raving, or what?” Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last. “What farce is this? You’ll drive me crazy too… what did you come to see me for, damn you?”
          “I don’t want… translation,” muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.
          “Then what the devil do you want?” shouted Razumihin from above. Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.
          “Hey, there! Where are you living?”
          No answer.
          “Well, confound you then!”
          But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under his horses’ hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle of the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He heard laughter, of course.
          “Serves him right!”
          “A pickpocket I dare say.”
          “Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on purpose; and you have to answer for him.”
          “It’s a regular profession, that’s what it is.”
          But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.
          “Take it, my good man, in Christ’s name.”
          He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. From his dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar asking alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty copecks he doubtless owed to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.
          He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without a cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished. The pain from the lash went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had hundreds of times—generally on his way home—stood still on this spot, gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely cold; this gorgeous picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and grotesque, that he should have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him… so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him now—all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all…. He felt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.
          Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember. Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on the sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion….
          It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what a scream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears, blows and curses he had never heard.
          He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the fighting, wailing and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement he caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not make out what she was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be beaten, for she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost a croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly and indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov trembled; he recognised the voice—it was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against the steps—that’s clear, that can be told from the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world topsy-turvy? He could hear people running in crowds from all the storeys and all the staircases; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking, doors banging. “But why, why, and how could it be?” he repeated, thinking seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly! And they would come to him then next, “for no doubt… it’s all about that… about yesterday…. Good God!” He would have fastened his door with the latch, but he could not lift his hand… besides, it would be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed him…. But at last all this uproar, after continuing about ten minutes, began gradually to subside. The landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still uttering threats and curses…. But at last he, too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. “Can he have gone away? Good Lord!” Yes, and now the landlady is going too, still weeping and moaning… and then her door slammed…. Now the crowd was going from the stairs to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling to one another, raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a whisper. There must have been numbers of them—almost all the inmates of the block. “But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come here!”
          Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. He lay for half an hour in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation of infinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he was not asleep, she set the candle on the table and began to lay out what she had brought—bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.
          “You’ve eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You’ve been trudging about all day, and you’re shaking with fever.”
          “Nastasya… what were they beating the landlady for?”
          She looked intently at him.
          “Who beat the landlady?”
          “Just now… half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent, on the stairs…. Why was he ill-treating her like that, and… why was he here?”
          Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted a long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.
          “Nastasya, why don’t you speak?” he said timidly at last in a weak voice.
          “It’s the blood,” she answered at last softly, as though speaking to herself.
          “Blood? What blood?” he muttered, growing white and turning towards the wall.
          Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.
          “Nobody has been beating the landlady,” she declared at last in a firm, resolute voice.
          He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.
          “I heard it myself…. I was not asleep… I was sitting up,” he said still more timidly. “I listened a long while. The assistant superintendent came…. Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all the flats.”
          “No one has been here. That’s the blood crying in your ears. When there’s no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancying things…. Will you eat something?”
          He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.
          “Give me something to drink… Nastasya.”
          She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of water. He remembered only swallowing one sip of the cold water and spilling some on his neck. Then followed forgetfulness.

          CHAPTER III

          He was not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious. He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though there were a number of people round him; they wanted to take him away somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid of him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to look at him; they threatened him, plotted something together, laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished another person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he could not remember who he was, and this fretted him, even made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been lying there a month; at other times it all seemed part of the same day. But of that—of that he had no recollection, and yet every minute he felt that he had forgotten something he ought to remember. He worried and tormented himself trying to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up, would have run away, but someone always prevented him by force, and he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness. At last he returned to complete consciousness.
          It happened at ten o’clock in the morning. On fine days the sun shone into the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on the right wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing beside him with another person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him very inquisitively. He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full, short-waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady was peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up.
          “Who is this, Nastasya?” he asked, pointing to the young man.
          “I say, he’s himself again!” she said.
          “He is himself,” echoed the man.
          Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations or discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat and buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and laziness, and absurdly bashful.
          “Who… are you?” he went on, addressing the man. But at that moment the door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall, Razumihin came in.
          “What a cabin it is!” he cried. “I am always knocking my head. You call this a lodging! So you are conscious, brother? I’ve just heard the news from Pashenka.”
          “He has just come to,” said Nastasya.
          “Just come to,” echoed the man again, with a smile.
          “And who are you?” Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. “My name is Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I am always called, but Vrazumihin, a student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are you?”
          “I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and I’ve come on business.”
          “Please sit down.” Razumihin seated himself on the other side of the table. “It’s a good thing you’ve come to, brother,” he went on to Raskolnikov. “For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at once it was nothing serious—something seemed to have gone to your head. Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you have not had enough beer and radish, but it’s nothing much, it will pass and you will be all right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow! He is making quite a name. Come, I won’t keep you,” he said, addressing the man again. “Will you explain what you want? You must know, Rodya, this is the second time they have sent from the office; but it was another man last time, and I talked to him. Who was it came before?”
          “That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please, sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in our office, too.”
          “He was more intelligent than you, don’t you think so?”
          “Yes, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am.”
          “Quite so; go on.”
          “At your mamma’s request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, of whom I presume you have heard more than once, a remittance is sent to you from our office,” the man began, addressing Raskolnikov. “If you are in an intelligible condition, I’ve thirty-five roubles to remit to you, as Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivanovitch at your mamma’s request instructions to that effect, as on previous occasions. Do you know him, sir?”
          “Yes, I remember… Vahrushin,” Raskolnikov said dreamily.
          “You hear, he knows Vahrushin,” cried Razumihin. “He is in ‘an intelligible condition’! And I see you are an intelligent man too. Well, it’s always pleasant to hear words of wisdom.”
          “That’s the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch. And at the request of your mamma, who has sent you a remittance once before in the same manner through him, he did not refuse this time also, and sent instructions to Semyon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you thirty-five roubles in the hope of better to come.”
          “That ‘hoping for better to come’ is the best thing you’ve said, though ‘your mamma’ is not bad either. Come then, what do you say? Is he fully conscious, eh?”
          “That’s all right. If only he can sign this little paper.”
          “He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?”
          “Yes, here’s the book.”
          “Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I’ll hold you. Take the pen and scribble ‘Raskolnikov’ for him. For just now, brother, money is sweeter to us than treacle.”
          “I don’t want it,” said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.
          “Not want it?”
          “I won’t sign it.”
          “How the devil can you do without signing it?”
          “I don’t want… the money.”
          “Don’t want the money! Come, brother, that’s nonsense, I bear witness. Don’t trouble, please, it’s only that he is on his travels again. But that’s pretty common with him at all times though…. You are a man of judgment and we will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his hand and he will sign it. Here.”
          “But I can come another time.”
          “No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment…. Now, Rodya, don’t keep your visitor, you see he is waiting,” and he made ready to hold Raskolnikov’s hand in earnest.
          “Stop, I’ll do it alone,” said the latter, taking the pen and signing his name.
          The messenger took out the money and went away.
          “Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?”
          “Yes,” answered Raskolnikov.
          “Is there any soup?”
          “Some of yesterday’s,” answered Nastasya, who was still standing there.
          “With potatoes and rice in it?”
          “Yes.”
          “I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea.”
          “Very well.”
          Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonishment and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see what would happen. “I believe I am not wandering. I believe it’s reality,” he thought.
          In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the soup, and announced that the tea would be ready directly. With the soup she brought two spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so on. The table was set as it had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean.
          “It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them.”
          “Well, you are a cool hand,” muttered Nastasya, and she departed to carry out his orders.
          Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put his left arm round Raskolnikov’s head, although he was able to sit up, and with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that it might not burn him. But the soup was only just warm. Raskolnikov swallowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumihin suddenly stopped, and said that he must ask Zossimov whether he ought to have more.
          Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.
          “And will you have tea?”
          “Yes.”
          “Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea we may venture on without the faculty. But here is the beer!” He moved back to his chair, pulled the soup and meat in front of him, and began eating as though he had not touched food for three days.
          “I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day now,” he mumbled with his mouth full of beef, “and it’s all Pashenka, your dear little landlady, who sees to that; she loves to do anything for me. I don’t ask for it, but, of course, I don’t object. And here’s Nastasya with the tea. She is a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear, won’t you have some beer?”
          “Get along with your nonsense!”
          “A cup of tea, then?”
          “A cup of tea, maybe.”
          “Pour it out. Stay, I’ll pour it out myself. Sit down.”
          He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa again. As before, he put his left arm round the sick man’s head, raised him up and gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each spoonful steadily and earnestly, as though this process was the principal and most effective means towards his friend’s recovery. Raskolnikov said nothing and made no resistance, though he felt quite strong enough to sit up on the sofa without support and could not merely have held a cup or a spoon, but even perhaps could have walked about. But from some queer, almost animal, cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a time, pretending if necessary not to be yet in full possession of his faculties, and meanwhile listening to find out what was going on. Yet he could not overcome his sense of repugnance. After sipping a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly released his head, pushed the spoon away capriciously, and sank back on the pillow. There were actually real pillows under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed that, too, and took note of it.
          “Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to make him some raspberry tea,” said Razumihin, going back to his chair and attacking his soup and beer again.
          “And where is she to get raspberries for you?” asked Nastasya, balancing a saucer on her five outspread fingers and sipping tea through a lump of sugar.
          “She’ll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all sorts of things have been happening while you have been laid up. When you decamped in that rascally way without leaving your address, I felt so angry that I resolved to find you out and punish you. I set to work that very day. How I ran about making inquiries for you! This lodging of yours I had forgotten, though I never remembered it, indeed, because I did not know it; and as for your old lodgings, I could only remember it was at the Five Corners, Harlamov’s house. I kept trying to find that Harlamov’s house, and afterwards it turned out that it was not Harlamov’s, but Buch’s. How one muddles up sound sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I went on the chance to the address bureau next day, and only fancy, in two minutes they looked you up! Your name is down there.”
          “My name!”
          “I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could not find while I was there. Well, it’s a long story. But as soon as I did land on this place, I soon got to know all your affairs—all, all, brother, I know everything; Nastasya here will tell you. I made the acquaintance of Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and the house-porter and Mr. Zametov, Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head clerk in the police office, and, last, but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasya here knows….”
          “He’s got round her,” Nastasya murmured, smiling slyly.
          “Why don’t you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?”
          “You are a one!” Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into a giggle. “I am not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna,” she added suddenly, recovering from her mirth.
          “I’ll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long story short, I was going in for a regular explosion here to uproot all malignant influences in the locality, but Pashenka won the day. I had not expected, brother, to find her so… prepossessing. Eh, what do you think?”
          Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes fixed upon him, full of alarm.
          “And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect,” Razumihin went on, not at all embarrassed by his silence.
          “Ah, the sly dog!” Nastasya shrieked again. This conversation afforded her unspeakable delight.
          “It’s a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the right way at first. You ought to have approached her differently. She is, so to speak, a most unaccountable character. But we will talk about her character later…. How could you let things come to such a pass that she gave up sending you your dinner? And that I O U? You must have been mad to sign an I O U. And that promise of marriage when her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was alive?… I know all about it! But I see that’s a delicate matter and I am an ass; forgive me. But, talking of foolishness, do you know Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly so foolish as you would think at first sight?”
          “No,” mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that it was better to keep up the conversation.
          “She isn’t, is she?” cried Razumihin, delighted to get an answer out of him. “But she is not very clever either, eh? She is essentially, essentially an unaccountable character! I am sometimes quite at a loss, I assure you…. She must be forty; she says she is thirty-six, and of course she has every right to say so. But I swear I judge her intellectually, simply from the metaphysical point of view; there is a sort of symbolism sprung up between us, a sort of algebra or what not! I don’t understand it! Well, that’s all nonsense. Only, seeing that you are not a student now and have lost your lessons and your clothes, and that through the young lady’s death she has no need to treat you as a relation, she suddenly took fright; and as you hid in your den and dropped all your old relations with her, she planned to get rid of you. And she’s been cherishing that design a long time, but was sorry to lose the I O U, for you assured her yourself that your mother would pay.”
          “It was base of me to say that…. My mother herself is almost a beggar… and I told a lie to keep my lodging… and be fed,” Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly.
          “Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at that point Mr. Tchebarov turns up, a business man. Pashenka would never have thought of doing anything on her own account, she is too retiring; but the business man is by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the question, ‘Is there any hope of realising the I O U?’ Answer: there is, because he has a mother who would save her Rodya with her hundred and twenty-five roubles pension, if she has to starve herself; and a sister, too, who would go into bondage for his sake. That’s what he was building upon…. Why do you start? I know all the ins and outs of your affairs now, my dear boy—it’s not for nothing that you were so open with Pashenka when you were her prospective son-in-law, and I say all this as a friend…. But I tell you what it is; an honest and sensitive man is open; and a business man ‘listens and goes on eating’ you up. Well, then she gave the I O U by way of payment to this Tchebarov, and without hesitation he made a formal demand for payment. When I heard of all this I wanted to blow him up, too, to clear my conscience, but by that time harmony reigned between me and Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the whole affair, engaging that you would pay. I went security for you, brother. Do you understand? We called Tchebarov, flung him ten roubles and got the I O U back from him, and here I have the honour of presenting it to you. She trusts your word now. Here, take it, you see I have torn it.”
          Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked at him and turned to the wall without uttering a word. Even Razumihin felt a twinge.
          “I see, brother,” he said a moment later, “that I have been playing the fool again. I thought I should amuse you with my chatter, and I believe I have only made you cross.”
          “Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?” Raskolnikov asked, after a moment’s pause without turning his head.
          “Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought Zametov one day.”
          “Zametov? The head clerk? What for?” Raskolnikov turned round quickly and fixed his eyes on Razumihin.
          “What’s the matter with you?… What are you upset about? He wanted to make your acquaintance because I talked to him a lot about you…. How could I have found out so much except from him? He is a capital fellow, brother, first-rate… in his own way, of course. Now we are friends—see each other almost every day. I have moved into this part, you know. I have only just moved. I’ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna once or twice…. Do you remember Luise, Luise Ivanovna?
          “Did I say anything in delirium?”
          “I should think so! You were beside yourself.”
          “What did I rave about?”
          “What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about…. Well, brother, now I must not lose time. To work.” He got up from the table and took up his cap.
          “What did I rave about?”
          “How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some secret? Don’t worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot about a bulldog, and about ear-rings and chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent. And another thing that was of special interest to you was your own sock. You whined, ‘Give me my sock.’ Zametov hunted all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented, ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And only then were you comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched thing in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you asked so piteously for fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out what sort of fringe, but we could not make it out. Now to business! Here are thirty-five roubles; I take ten of them, and shall give you an account of them in an hour or two. I will let Zossimov know at the same time, though he ought to have been here long ago, for it is nearly twelve. And you, Nastasya, look in pretty often while I am away, to see whether he wants a drink or anything else. And I will tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Good-bye!”
          “He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he’s a deep one!” said Nastasya as he went out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not resist running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what he would say to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumihin.
          No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, twitching impatience he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to work. But to what work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him.
          “Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet or not? What if they know it and are only pretending, mocking me while I am laid up, and then they will come in and tell me that it’s been discovered long ago and that they have only… What am I to do now? That’s what I’ve forgotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I remembered a minute ago.”
          He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable bewilderment about him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he rushed to the corner where there was a hole under the paper, began examining it, put his hand into the hole, fumbled—but that was not it. He went to the stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; the frayed edges of his trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there just as he had thrown them. No one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock about which Razumihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it lay on the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered with dust and grime that Zametov could not have seen anything on it.
          “Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the police office? Where’s the notice? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was then. I looked at my sock then, too, but now… now I have been ill. But what did Zametov come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?” he muttered, helplessly sitting on the sofa again. “What does it mean? Am I still in delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real…. Ah, I remember; I must escape! Make haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes… but where? And where are my clothes? I’ve no boots. They’ve taken them away! They’ve hidden them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat—they passed that over! And here is money on the table, thank God! And here’s the I O U… I’ll take the money and go and take another lodging. They won’t find me!… Yes, but the address bureau? They’ll find me, Razumihin will find me. Better escape altogether… far away… to America, and let them do their worst! And take the I O U… it would be of use there…. What else shall I take? They think I am ill! They don’t know that I can walk, ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know all about it! If only I could get downstairs! And what if they have set a watch there—policemen! What’s this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a bottle, cold!”
          He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer, and gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a flame in his breast. But in another minute the beer had gone to his head, and a faint and even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the quilt over him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon him. With a sense of comfort he nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped more closely about him the soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the old, ragged greatcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing sleep.
          He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw Razumihin standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as though trying to recall something.
          “Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the parcel!” Razumihin shouted down the stairs. “You shall have the account directly.”
          “What time is it?” asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily.
          “Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it’s almost evening, it will be six o’clock directly. You have slept more than six hours.”
          “Good heavens! Have I?”
          “And why not? It will do you good. What’s the hurry? A tryst, is it? We’ve all time before us. I’ve been waiting for the last three hours for you; I’ve been up twice and found you asleep. I’ve called on Zossimov twice; not at home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. And I’ve been out on my own business, too. You know I’ve been moving to-day, moving with my uncle. I have an uncle living with me now. But that’s no matter, to business. Give me the parcel, Nastasya. We will open it directly. And how do you feel now, brother?”
          “I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you been here long?”
          “I tell you I’ve been waiting for the last three hours.”
          “No, before.”
          “How do you mean?”
          “How long have you been coming here?”
          “Why I told you all about it this morning. Don’t you remember?”
          Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream to him. He could not remember alone, and looked inquiringly at Razumihin.
          “Hm!” said the latter, “he has forgotten. I fancied then that you were not quite yourself. Now you are better for your sleep…. You really look much better. First-rate! Well, to business. Look here, my dear boy.”
          He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested him.
          “Believe me, brother, this is something specially near my heart. For we must make a man of you. Let’s begin from the top. Do you see this cap?” he said, taking out of the bundle a fairly good though cheap and ordinary cap. “Let me try it on.”
          “Presently, afterwards,” said Raskolnikov, waving it off pettishly.
          “Come, Rodya, my boy, don’t oppose it, afterwards will be too late; and I shan’t sleep all night, for I bought it by guess, without measure. Just right!” he cried triumphantly, fitting it on, “just your size! A proper head-covering is the first thing in dress and a recommendation in its own way. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine, is always obliged to take off his pudding basin when he goes into any public place where other people wear their hats or caps. People think he does it from slavish politeness, but it’s simply because he is ashamed of his bird’s nest; he is such a boastful fellow! Look, Nastasya, here are two specimens of headgear: this Palmerston”—he took from the corner Raskolnikov’s old, battered hat, which for some unknown reason, he called a Palmerston—”or this jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what do you suppose I paid for it, Nastasya!” he said, turning to her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak.
          “Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say,” answered Nastasya.
          “Twenty copecks, silly!” he cried, offended. “Why, nowadays you would cost more than that—eighty copecks! And that only because it has been worn. And it’s bought on condition that when’s it’s worn out, they will give you another next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now let us pass to the United States of America, as they called them at school. I assure you I am proud of these breeches,” and he exhibited to Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers of grey woollen material. “No holes, no spots, and quite respectable, although a little worn; and a waistcoat to match, quite in the fashion. And its being worn really is an improvement, it’s softer, smoother…. You see, Rodya, to my thinking, the great thing for getting on in the world is always to keep to the seasons; if you don’t insist on having asparagus in January, you keep your money in your purse; and it’s the same with this purchase. It’s summer now, so I’ve been buying summer things—warmer materials will be wanted for autumn, so you will have to throw these away in any case… especially as they will be done for by then from their own lack of coherence if not your higher standard of luxury. Come, price them! What do you say? Two roubles twenty-five copecks! And remember the condition: if you wear these out, you will have another suit for nothing! They only do business on that system at Fedyaev’s; if you’ve bought a thing once, you are satisfied for life, for you will never go there again of your own free will. Now for the boots. What do you say? You see that they are a bit worn, but they’ll last a couple of months, for it’s foreign work and foreign leather; the secretary of the English Embassy sold them last week—he had only worn them six days, but he was very short of cash. Price—a rouble and a half. A bargain?”
          “But perhaps they won’t fit,” observed Nastasya.
          “Not fit? Just look!” and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov’s old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. “I did not go empty-handed—they took the size from this monster. We all did our best. And as to your linen, your landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with are three shirts, hempen but with a fashionable front…. Well now then, eighty copecks the cap, two roubles twenty-five copecks the suit—together three roubles five copecks—a rouble and a half for the boots—for, you see, they are very good—and that makes four roubles fifty-five copecks; five roubles for the underclothes—they were bought in the lo—which makes exactly nine roubles fifty-five copecks. Forty-five copecks change in coppers. Will you take it? And so, Rodya, you are set up with a complete new rig-out, for your overcoat will serve, and even has a style of its own. That comes from getting one’s clothes from Sharmer’s! As for your socks and other things, I leave them to you; we’ve twenty-five roubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don’t you worry. I tell you she’ll trust you for anything. And now, brother, let me change your linen, for I daresay you will throw off your illness with your shirt.”
          “Let me be! I don’t want to!” Raskolnikov waved him off. He had listened with disgust to Razumihin’s efforts to be playful about his purchases.
          “Come, brother, don’t tell me I’ve been trudging around for nothing,” Razumihin insisted. “Nastasya, don’t be bashful, but help me—that’s it,” and in spite of Raskolnikov’s resistance he changed his linen. The latter sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two said nothing.
          “It will be long before I get rid of them,” he thought. “What money was all that bought with?” he asked at last, gazing at the wall.
          “Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, your mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?”
          “I remember now,” said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence. Razumihin looked at him, frowning and uneasy.
          The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance seemed familiar to Raskolnikov came in.

          CHAPTER IV

          Zossimov was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless, clean-shaven face and straight flaxen hair. He wore spectacles, and a big gold ring on his fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He had on a light grey fashionable loose coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him loose, fashionable and spick and span; his linen was irreproachable, his watch-chain was massive. In manner he was slow and, as it were, nonchalant, and at the same time studiously free and easy; he made efforts to conceal his self-importance, but it was apparent at every instant. All his acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever at his work.
          “I’ve been to you twice to-day, brother. You see, he’s come to himself,” cried Razumihin.
          “I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?” said Zossimov to Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and, sitting down at the foot of the sofa, he settled himself as comfortably as he could.
          “He is still depressed,” Razumihin went on. “We’ve just changed his linen and he almost cried.”
          “That’s very natural; you might have put it off if he did not wish it…. His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still aching, eh?”
          “I am well, I am perfectly well!” Raskolnikov declared positively and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and looked at them with glittering eyes, but sank back on to the pillow at once and turned to the wall. Zossimov watched him intently.
          “Very good…. Going on all right,” he said lazily. “Has he eaten anything?”
          They told him, and asked what he might have.
          “He may have anything… soup, tea… mushrooms and cucumbers, of course, you must not give him; he’d better not have meat either, and… but no need to tell you that!” Razumihin and he looked at each other. “No more medicine or anything. I’ll look at him again to-morrow. Perhaps, to-day even… but never mind…”
          “To-morrow evening I shall take him for a walk,” said Razumihin. “We are going to the Yusupov garden and then to the Palais de Crystal.”
          “I would not disturb him to-morrow at all, but I don’t know… a little, maybe… but we’ll see.”
          “Ach, what a nuisance! I’ve got a house-warming party to-night; it’s only a step from here. Couldn’t he come? He could lie on the sofa. You are coming?” Razumihin said to Zossimov. “Don’t forget, you promised.”
          “All right, only rather later. What are you going to do?”
          “Oh, nothing—tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie… just our friends.”
          “And who?”
          “All neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle, and he is new too—he only arrived in Petersburg yesterday to see to some business of his. We meet once in five years.”
          “What is he?”
          “He’s been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; gets a little pension. He is sixty-five—not worth talking about…. But I am fond of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the head of the Investigation Department here… But you know him.”
          “Is he a relation of yours, too?”
          “A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarrelled once, won’t you come then?”
          “I don’t care a damn for him.”
          “So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a teacher, a government clerk, a musician, an officer and Zametov.”
          “Do tell me, please, what you or he”—Zossimov nodded at Raskolnikov—”can have in common with this Zametov?”
          “Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are worked by principles, as it were by springs; you won’t venture to turn round on your own account. If a man is a nice fellow, that’s the only principle I go upon. Zametov is a delightful person.”
          “Though he does take bribes.”
          “Well, he does! and what of it? I don’t care if he does take bribes,” Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. “I don’t praise him for taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own way! But if one looks at men in all ways—are there many good ones left? Why, I am sure I shouldn’t be worth a baked onion myself… perhaps with you thrown in.”
          “That’s too little; I’d give two for you.”
          “And I wouldn’t give more than one for you. No more of your jokes! Zametov is no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and one must draw him not repel him. You’ll never improve a man by repelling him, especially a boy. One has to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you progressive dullards! You don’t understand. You harm yourselves running another man down…. But if you want to know, we really have something in common.”
          “I should like to know what.”
          “Why, it’s all about a house-painter…. We are getting him out of a mess! Though indeed there’s nothing to fear now. The matter is absolutely self-evident. We only put on steam.”
          “A painter?”
          “Why, haven’t I told you about it? I only told you the beginning then about the murder of the old pawnbroker-woman. Well, the painter is mixed up in it…”
          “Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it… partly… for one reason…. I read about it in the papers, too….”
          “Lizaveta was murdered, too,” Nastasya blurted out, suddenly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door listening.
          “Lizaveta,” murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.
          “Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn’t you know her? She used to come here. She mended a shirt for you, too.”
          Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals and how many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the flower.
          “But what about the painter?” Zossimov interrupted Nastasya’s chatter with marked displeasure. She sighed and was silent.
          “Why, he was accused of the murder,” Razumihin went on hotly.
          “Was there evidence against him then?”
          “Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evidence, and that’s what we have to prove. It was just as they pitched on those fellows, Koch and Pestryakov, at first. Foo! how stupidly it’s all done, it makes one sick, though it’s not one’s business! Pestryakov may be coming to-night…. By the way, Rodya, you’ve heard about the business already; it happened before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the police office while they were talking about it.”
          Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not stir.
          “But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a busybody you are!” Zossimov observed.
          “Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway,” shouted Razumihin, bringing his fist down on the table. “What’s the most offensive is not their lying—one can always forgive lying—lying is a delightful thing, for it leads to truth—what is offensive is that they lie and worship their own lying…. I respect Porfiry, but… What threw them out at first? The door was locked, and when they came back with the porter it was open. So it followed that Koch and Pestryakov were the murderers—that was their logic!”
          “But don’t excite yourself; they simply detained them, they could not help that…. And, by the way, I’ve met that man Koch. He used to buy unredeemed pledges from the old woman? Eh?”
          “Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He makes a profession of it. But enough of him! Do you know what makes me angry? It’s their sickening rotten, petrified routine…. And this case might be the means of introducing a new method. One can show from the psychological data alone how to get on the track of the real man. ‘We have facts,’ they say. But facts are not everything—at least half the business lies in how you interpret them!”
          “Can you interpret them, then?”
          “Anyway, one can’t hold one’s tongue when one has a feeling, a tangible feeling, that one might be a help if only…. Eh! Do you know the details of the case?”
          “I am waiting to hear about the painter.”
          “Oh, yes! Well, here’s the story. Early on the third day after the murder, when they were still dandling Koch and Pestryakov—though they accounted for every step they took and it was as plain as a pikestaff—an unexpected fact turned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a dram-shop facing the house, brought to the police office a jeweller’s case containing some gold ear-rings, and told a long rigamarole. ‘The day before yesterday, just after eight o’clock’—mark the day and the hour!—’a journeyman house-painter, Nikolay, who had been in to see me already that day, brought me this box of gold ear-rings and stones, and asked me to give him two roubles for them. When I asked him where he got them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I did not ask him anything more.’ I am telling you Dushkin’s story. ‘I gave him a note’—a rouble that is—’for I thought if he did not pawn it with me he would with another. It would all come to the same thing—he’d spend it on drink, so the thing had better be with me. The further you hide it the quicker you will find it, and if anything turns up, if I hear any rumours, I’ll take it to the police.’ Of course, that’s all taradiddle; he lies like a horse, for I know this Dushkin, he is a pawnbroker and a receiver of stolen goods, and he did not cheat Nikolay out of a thirty-rouble trinket in order to give it to the police. He was simply afraid. But no matter, to return to Dushkin’s story. ‘I’ve known this peasant, Nikolay Dementyev, from a child; he comes from the same province and district of Zaraïsk, we are both Ryazan men. And though Nikolay is not a drunkard, he drinks, and I knew he had a job in that house, painting work with Dmitri, who comes from the same village, too. As soon as he got the rouble he changed it, had a couple of glasses, took his change and went out. But I did not see Dmitri with him then. And the next day I heard that someone had murdered Alyona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an axe. I knew them, and I felt suspicious about the ear-rings at once, for I knew the murdered woman lent money on pledges. I went to the house, and began to make careful inquiries without saying a word to anyone. First of all I asked, “Is Nikolay here?” Dmitri told me that Nikolay had gone off on the spree; he had come home at daybreak drunk, stayed in the house about ten minutes, and went out again. Dmitri didn’t see him again and is finishing the job alone. And their job is on the same staircase as the murder, on the second floor. When I heard all that I did not say a word to anyone’—that’s Dushkin’s tale—’but I found out what I could about the murder, and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at eight o’clock this morning’—that was the third day, you understand—’I saw Nikolay coming in, not sober, though not to say very drunk—he could understand what was said to him. He sat down on the bench and did not speak. There was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep on a bench and our two boys. “Have you seen Dmitri?” said I. “No, I haven’t,” said he. “And you’ve not been here either?” “Not since the day before yesterday,” said he. “And where did you sleep last night?” “In Peski, with the Kolomensky men.” “And where did you get those ear-rings?” I asked. “I found them in the street,” and the way he said it was a bit queer; he did not look at me. “Did you hear what happened that very evening, at that very hour, on that same staircase?” said I. “No,” said he, “I had not heard,” and all the while he was listening, his eyes were staring out of his head and he turned as white as chalk. I told him all about it and he took his hat and began getting up. I wanted to keep him. “Wait a bit, Nikolay,” said I, “won’t you have a drink?” And I signed to the boy to hold the door, and I came out from behind the bar; but he darted out and down the street to the turning at a run. I have not seen him since. Then my doubts were at an end—it was his doing, as clear as could be….’”
          “I should think so,” said Zossimov.
          “Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and low for Nikolay; they detained Dushkin and searched his house; Dmitri, too, was arrested; the Kolomensky men also were turned inside out. And the day before yesterday they arrested Nikolay in a tavern at the end of the town. He had gone there, taken the silver cross off his neck and asked for a dram for it. They gave it to him. A few minutes afterwards the woman went to the cowshed, and through a crack in the wall she saw in the stable adjoining he had made a noose of his sash from the beam, stood on a block of wood, and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman screeched her hardest; people ran in. ‘So that’s what you are up to!’ ‘Take me,’ he says, ‘to such-and-such a police officer; I’ll confess everything.’ Well, they took him to that police station—that is here—with a suitable escort. So they asked him this and that, how old he is, ‘twenty-two,’ and so on. At the question, ‘When you were working with Dmitri, didn’t you see anyone on the staircase at such-and-such a time?’—answer: ‘To be sure folks may have gone up and down, but I did not notice them.’ ‘And didn’t you hear anything, any noise, and so on?’ ‘We heard nothing special.’ ‘And did you hear, Nikolay, that on the same day Widow So-and-so and her sister were murdered and robbed?’ ‘I never knew a thing about it. The first I heard of it was from Afanasy Pavlovitch the day before yesterday.’ ‘And where did you find the ear-rings?’ ‘I found them on the pavement.’ ‘Why didn’t you go to work with Dmitri the other day?’ ‘Because I was drinking.’ ‘And where were you drinking?’ ‘Oh, in such-and-such a place.’ ‘Why did you run away from Dushkin’s?’ ‘Because I was awfully frightened.’ ‘What were you frightened of?’ ‘That I should be accused.’ ‘How could you be frightened, if you felt free from guilt?’ Now, Zossimov, you may not believe me, that question was put literally in those words. I know it for a fact, it was repeated to me exactly! What do you say to that?”
          “Well, anyway, there’s the evidence.”
          “I am not talking of the evidence now, I am talking about that question, of their own idea of themselves. Well, so they squeezed and squeezed him and he confessed: ‘I did not find it in the street, but in the flat where I was painting with Dmitri.’ ‘And how was that?’ ‘Why, Dmitri and I were painting there all day, and we were just getting ready to go, and Dmitri took a brush and painted my face, and he ran off and I after him. I ran after him, shouting my hardest, and at the bottom of the stairs I ran right against the porter and some gentlemen—and how many gentlemen were there I don’t remember. And the porter swore at me, and the other porter swore, too, and the porter’s wife came out, and swore at us, too; and a gentleman came into the entry with a lady, and he swore at us, too, for Dmitri and I lay right across the way. I got hold of Dmitri’s hair and knocked him down and began beating him. And Dmitri, too, caught me by the hair and began beating me. But we did it all not for temper but in a friendly way, for sport. And then Dmitri escaped and ran into the street, and I ran after him; but I did not catch him, and went back to the flat alone; I had to clear up my things. I began putting them together, expecting Dmitri to come, and there in the passage, in the corner by the door, I stepped on the box. I saw it lying there wrapped up in paper. I took off the paper, saw some little hooks, undid them, and in the box were the ear-rings….’”
          “Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the door?” Raskolnikov cried suddenly, staring with a blank look of terror at Razumihin, and he slowly sat up on the sofa, leaning on his hand.
          “Yes… why? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” Razumihin, too, got up from his seat.
          “Nothing,” Raskolnikov answered faintly, turning to the wall. All were silent for a while.
          “He must have waked from a dream,” Razumihin said at last, looking inquiringly at Zossimov. The latter slightly shook his head.
          “Well, go on,” said Zossimov. “What next?”
          “What next? As soon as he saw the ear-rings, forgetting Dmitri and everything, he took up his cap and ran to Dushkin and, as we know, got a rouble from him. He told a lie saying he found them in the street, and went off drinking. He keeps repeating his old story about the murder: ‘I know nothing of it, never heard of it till the day before yesterday.’ ‘And why didn’t you come to the police till now?’ ‘I was frightened.’ ‘And why did you try to hang yourself?’ ‘From anxiety.’ ‘What anxiety?’ ‘That I should be accused of it.’ Well, that’s the whole story. And now what do you suppose they deduced from that?”
          “Why, there’s no supposing. There’s a clue, such as it is, a fact. You wouldn’t have your painter set free?”
          “Now they’ve simply taken him for the murderer. They haven’t a shadow of doubt.”
          “That’s nonsense. You are excited. But what about the ear-rings? You must admit that, if on the very same day and hour ear-rings from the old woman’s box have come into Nikolay’s hands, they must have come there somehow. That’s a good deal in such a case.”
          “How did they get there? How did they get there?” cried Razumihin. “How can you, a doctor, whose duty it is to study man and who has more opportunity than anyone else for studying human nature—how can you fail to see the character of the man in the whole story? Don’t you see at once that the answers he has given in the examination are the holy truth? They came into his hand precisely as he has told us—he stepped on the box and picked it up.”
          “The holy truth! But didn’t he own himself that he told a lie at first?”
          “Listen to me, listen attentively. The porter and Koch and Pestryakov and the other porter and the wife of the first porter and the woman who was sitting in the porter’s lodge and the man Kryukov, who had just got out of a cab at that minute and went in at the entry with a lady on his arm, that is eight or ten witnesses, agree that Nikolay had Dmitri on the ground, was lying on him beating him, while Dmitri hung on to his hair, beating him, too. They lay right across the way, blocking the thoroughfare. They were sworn at on all sides while they ‘like children’ (the very words of the witnesses) were falling over one another, squealing, fighting and laughing with the funniest faces, and, chasing one another like children, they ran into the street. Now take careful note. The bodies upstairs were warm, you understand, warm when they found them! If they, or Nikolay alone, had murdered them and broken open the boxes, or simply taken part in the robbery, allow me to ask you one question: do their state of mind, their squeals and giggles and childish scuffling at the gate fit in with axes, bloodshed, fiendish cunning, robbery? They’d just killed them, not five or ten minutes before, for the bodies were still warm, and at once, leaving the flat open, knowing that people would go there at once, flinging away their booty, they rolle

    • russianriver says:

      “No, I am not.”
      Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to Razumihin’s, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friend face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of all disposed for at that moment was to be face to face with anyone in the wide world. His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at himself as soon as he crossed Razumihin’s threshold.
      “Good-bye,” he said abruptly, and walked to the door.
      “Stop, stop! You queer fish.”
      “I don’t want to,” said the other, again pulling away his hand.
      “Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this is… almost insulting! I won’t let you go like that.”
      “Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could help… to begin… because you are kinder than anyone—cleverer, I mean, and can judge… and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at all… no one’s services… no one’s sympathy. I am by myself… alone. Come, that’s enough. Leave me alone.”
      “Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all I care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don’t care about that, but there’s a bookseller, Heruvimov—and he takes the place of a lesson. I would not exchange him for five lessons. He’s doing publishing of a kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circulation they have! The very titles are worth the money! You always maintained that I was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fools than I am! Now he is setting up for being advanced, not that he has an inkling of anything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of the German text—in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discusses the question, ‘Is woman a human being?’ And, of course, triumphantly proves that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as a contribution to the woman question; I am translating it; he will expand these two and a half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous title half a page long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! He pays me six roubles the signature, it works out to about fifteen roubles for the job, and I’ve had six already in advance. When we have finished this, we are going to begin a translation about whales, and then some of the dullest scandals out of the second part of Les Confessions we have marked for translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was a kind of Radishchev. You may be sure I don’t contradict him, hang him! Well, would you like to do the second signature of ‘Is woman a human being?’ If you would, take the German and pens and paper—all those are provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles in advance on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for your share. And when you have finished the signature there will be another three roubles for you. And please don’t think I am doing you a service; quite the contrary, as soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to begin with, I am weak in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes utterly adrift in German, so that I make it up as I go along for the most part. The only comfort is, that it’s bound to be a change for the better. Though who can tell, maybe it’s sometimes for the worse. Will you take it?”
      Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three roubles and without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in astonishment. But when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the stairs to Razumihin’s again and laying on the table the German article and the three roubles, went out again, still without uttering a word.
      “Are you raving, or what?” Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last. “What farce is this? You’ll drive me crazy too… what did you come to see me for, damn you?”
      “I don’t want… translation,” muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.
      “Then what the devil do you want?” shouted Razumihin from above. Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.
      “Hey, there! Where are you living?”
      No answer.
      “Well, confound you then!”
      But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under his horses’ hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle of the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He heard laughter, of course.
      “Serves him right!”
      “A pickpocket I dare say.”
      “Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on purpose; and you have to answer for him.”
      “It’s a regular profession, that’s what it is.”
      But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.
      “Take it, my good man, in Christ’s name.”
      He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. From his dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar asking alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty copecks he doubtless owed to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.
      He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without a cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished. The pain from the lash went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had hundreds of times—generally on his way home—stood still on this spot, gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely cold; this gorgeous picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and grotesque, that he should have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him… so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him now—all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all…. He felt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.
      Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember. Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on the sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion….
      It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what a scream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears, blows and curses he had never heard.
      He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the fighting, wailing and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement he caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not make out what she was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be beaten, for she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost a croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly and indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov trembled; he recognised the voice—it was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against the steps—that’s clear, that can be told from the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world topsy-turvy? He could hear people running in crowds from all the storeys and all the staircases; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking, doors banging. “But why, why, and how could it be?” he repeated, thinking seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly! And they would come to him then next, “for no doubt… it’s all about that… about yesterday…. Good God!” He would have fastened his door with the latch, but he could not lift his hand… besides, it would be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed him…. But at last all this uproar, after continuing about ten minutes, began gradually to subside. The landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still uttering threats and curses…. But at last he, too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. “Can he have gone away? Good Lord!” Yes, and now the landlady is going too, still weeping and moaning… and then her door slammed…. Now the crowd was going from the stairs to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling to one another, raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a whisper. There must have been numbers of them—almost all the inmates of the block. “But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come here!”
      Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. He lay for half an hour in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation of infinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he was not asleep, she set the candle on the table and began to lay out what she had brought—bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.
      “You’ve eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You’ve been trudging about all day, and you’re shaking with fever.”
      “Nastasya… what were they beating the landlady for?”
      She looked intently at him.
      “Who beat the landlady?”
      “Just now… half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent, on the stairs…. Why was he ill-treating her like that, and… why was he here?”
      Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted a long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.
      “Nastasya, why don’t you speak?” he said timidly at last in a weak voice.
      “It’s the blood,” she answered at last softly, as though speaking to herself.
      “Blood? What blood?” he muttered, growing white and turning towards the wall.
      Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.
      “Nobody has been beating the landlady,” she declared at last in a firm, resolute voice.
      He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.
      “I heard it myself…. I was not asleep… I was sitting up,” he said still more timidly. “I listened a long while. The assistant superintendent came…. Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all the flats.”
      “No one has been here. That’s the blood crying in your ears. When there’s no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancying things…. Will you eat something?”
      He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.
      “Give me something to drink… Nastasya.”
      She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of water. He remembered only swallowing one sip of the cold water and spilling some on his neck. Then followed forgetfulness.

      CHAPTER III

      He was not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious. He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though there were a number of people round him; they wanted to take him away somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid of him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to look at him; they threatened him, plotted something together, laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished another person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he could not remember who he was, and this fretted him, even made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been lying there a month; at other times it all seemed part of the same day. But of that—of that he had no recollection, and yet every minute he felt that he had forgotten something he ought to remember. He worried and tormented himself trying to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up, would have run away, but someone always prevented him by force, and he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness. At last he returned to complete consciousness.
      It happened at ten o’clock in the morning. On fine days the sun shone into the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on the right wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing beside him with another person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him very inquisitively. He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full, short-waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady was peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up.
      “Who is this, Nastasya?” he asked, pointing to the young man.
      “I say, he’s himself again!” she said.
      “He is himself,” echoed the man.
      Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations or discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat and buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and laziness, and absurdly bashful.
      “Who… are you?” he went on, addressing the man. But at that moment the door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall, Razumihin came in.
      “What a cabin it is!” he cried. “I am always knocking my head. You call this a lodging! So you are conscious, brother? I’ve just heard the news from Pashenka.”
      “He has just come to,” said Nastasya.
      “Just come to,” echoed the man again, with a smile.
      “And who are you?” Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. “My name is Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I am always called, but Vrazumihin, a student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are you?”
      “I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and I’ve come on business.”
      “Please sit down.” Razumihin seated himself on the other side of the table. “It’s a good thing you’ve come to, brother,” he went on to Raskolnikov. “For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at once it was nothing serious—something seemed to have gone to your head. Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you have not had enough beer and radish, but it’s nothing much, it will pass and you will be all right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow! He is making quite a name. Come, I won’t keep you,” he said, addressing the man again. “Will you explain what you want? You must know, Rodya, this is the second time they have sent from the office; but it was another man last time, and I talked to him. Who was it came before?”
      “That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please, sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in our office, too.”
      “He was more intelligent than you, don’t you think so?”
      “Yes, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am.”
      “Quite so; go on.”
      “At your mamma’s request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, of whom I presume you have heard more than once, a remittance is sent to you from our office,” the man began, addressing Raskolnikov. “If you are in an intelligible condition, I’ve thirty-five roubles to remit to you, as Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivanovitch at your mamma’s request instructions to that effect, as on previous occasions. Do you know him, sir?”
      “Yes, I remember… Vahrushin,” Raskolnikov said dreamily.
      “You hear, he knows Vahrushin,” cried Razumihin. “He is in ‘an intelligible condition’! And I see you are an intelligent man too. Well, it’s always pleasant to hear words of wisdom.”
      “That’s the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch. And at the request of your mamma, who has sent you a remittance once before in the same manner through him, he did not refuse this time also, and sent instructions to Semyon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you thirty-five roubles in the hope of better to come.”
      “That ‘hoping for better to come’ is the best thing you’ve said, though ‘your mamma’ is not bad either. Come then, what do you say? Is he fully conscious, eh?”
      “That’s all right. If only he can sign this little paper.”
      “He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?”
      “Yes, here’s the book.”
      “Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I’ll hold you. Take the pen and scribble ‘Raskolnikov’ for him. For just now, brother, money is sweeter to us than treacle.”
      “I don’t want it,” said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.
      “Not want it?”
      “I won’t sign it.”
      “How the devil can you do without signing it?”
      “I don’t want… the money.”
      “Don’t want the money! Come, brother, that’s nonsense, I bear witness. Don’t trouble, please, it’s only that he is on his travels again. But that’s pretty common with him at all times though…. You are a man of judgment and we will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his hand and he will sign it. Here.”
      “But I can come another time.”
      “No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment…. Now, Rodya, don’t keep your visitor, you see he is waiting,” and he made ready to hold Raskolnikov’s hand in earnest.
      “Stop, I’ll do it alone,” said the latter, taking the pen and signing his name.
      The messenger took out the money and went away.
      “Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?”
      “Yes,” answered Raskolnikov.
      “Is there any soup?”
      “Some of yesterday’s,” answered Nastasya, who was still standing there.
      “With potatoes and rice in it?”
      “Yes.”
      “I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea.”
      “Very well.”
      Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonishment and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see what would happen. “I believe I am not wandering. I believe it’s reality,” he thought.
      In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the soup, and announced that the tea would be ready directly. With the soup she brought two spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so on. The table was set as it had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean.
      “It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them.”
      “Well, you are a cool hand,” muttered Nastasya, and she departed to carry out his orders.
      Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put his left arm round Raskolnikov’s head, although he was able to sit up, and with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that it might not burn him. But the soup was only just warm. Raskolnikov swallowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumihin suddenly stopped, and said that he must ask Zossimov whether he ought to have more.
      Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.
      “And will you have tea?”
      “Yes.”
      “Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea we may venture on without the faculty. But here is the beer!” He moved back to his chair, pulled the soup and meat in front of him, and began eating as though he had not touched food for three days.
      “I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day now,” he mumbled with his mouth full of beef, “and it’s all Pashenka, your dear little landlady, who sees to that; she loves to do anything for me. I don’t ask for it, but, of course, I don’t object. And here’s Nastasya with the tea. She is a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear, won’t you have some beer?”
      “Get along with your nonsense!”
      “A cup of tea, then?”
      “A cup of tea, maybe.”
      “Pour it out. Stay, I’ll pour it out myself. Sit down.”
      He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa again. As before, he put his left arm round the sick man’s head, raised him up and gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each spoonful steadily and earnestly, as though this process was the principal and most effective means towards his friend’s recovery. Raskolnikov said nothing and made no resistance, though he felt quite strong enough to sit up on the sofa without support and could not merely have held a cup or a spoon, but even perhaps could have walked about. But from some queer, almost animal, cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a time, pretending if necessary not to be yet in full possession of his faculties, and meanwhile listening to find out what was going on. Yet he could not overcome his sense of repugnance. After sipping a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly released his head, pushed the spoon away capriciously, and sank back on the pillow. There were actually real pillows under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed that, too, and took note of it.
      “Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to make him some raspberry tea,” said Razumihin, going back to his chair and attacking his soup and beer again.
      “And where is she to get raspberries for you?” asked Nastasya, balancing a saucer on her five outspread fingers and sipping tea through a lump of sugar.
      “She’ll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all sorts of things have been happening while you have been laid up. When you decamped in that rascally way without leaving your address, I felt so angry that I resolved to find you out and punish you. I set to work that very day. How I ran about making inquiries for you! This lodging of yours I had forgotten, though I never remembered it, indeed, because I did not know it; and as for your old lodgings, I could only remember it was at the Five Corners, Harlamov’s house. I kept trying to find that Harlamov’s house, and afterwards it turned out that it was not Harlamov’s, but Buch’s. How one muddles up sound sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I went on the chance to the address bureau next day, and only fancy, in two minutes they looked you up! Your name is down there.”
      “My name!”
      “I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could not find while I was there. Well, it’s a long story. But as soon as I did land on this place, I soon got to know all your affairs—all, all, brother, I know everything; Nastasya here will tell you. I made the acquaintance of Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and the house-porter and Mr. Zametov, Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head clerk in the police office, and, last, but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasya here knows….”
      “He’s got round her,” Nastasya murmured, smiling slyly.
      “Why don’t you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?”
      “You are a one!” Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into a giggle. “I am not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna,” she added suddenly, recovering from her mirth.
      “I’ll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long story short, I was going in for a regular explosion here to uproot all malignant influences in the locality, but Pashenka won the day. I had not expected, brother, to find her so… prepossessing. Eh, what do you think?”
      Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes fixed upon him, full of alarm.
      “And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect,” Razumihin went on, not at all embarrassed by his silence.
      “Ah, the sly dog!” Nastasya shrieked again. This conversation afforded her unspeakable delight.
      “It’s a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the right way at first. You ought to have approached her differently. She is, so to speak, a most unaccountable character. But we will talk about her character later…. How could you let things come to such a pass that she gave up sending you your dinner? And that I O U? You must have been mad to sign an I O U. And that promise of marriage when her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was alive?… I know all about it! But I see that’s a delicate matter and I am an ass; forgive me. But, talking of foolishness, do you know Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly so foolish as you would think at first sight?”
      “No,” mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that it was better to keep up the conversation.
      “She isn’t, is she?” cried Razumihin, delighted to get an answer out of him. “But she is not very clever either, eh? She is essentially, essentially an unaccountable character! I am sometimes quite at a loss, I assure you…. She must be forty; she says she is thirty-six, and of course she has every right to say so. But I swear I judge her intellectually, simply from the metaphysical point of view; there is a sort of symbolism sprung up between us, a sort of algebra or what not! I don’t understand it! Well, that’s all nonsense. Only, seeing that you are not a student now and have lost your lessons and your clothes, and that through the young lady’s death she has no need to treat you as a relation, she suddenly took fright; and as you hid in your den and dropped all your old relations with her, she planned to get rid of you. And she’s been cherishing that design a long time, but was sorry to lose the I O U, for you assured her yourself that your mother would pay.”
      “It was base of me to say that…. My mother herself is almost a beggar… and I told a lie to keep my lodging… and be fed,” Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly.
      “Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at that point Mr. Tchebarov turns up, a business man. Pashenka would never have thought of doing anything on her own account, she is too retiring; but the business man is by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the question, ‘Is there any hope of realising the I O U?’ Answer: there is, because he has a mother who would save her Rodya with her hundred and twenty-five roubles pension, if she has to starve herself; and a sister, too, who would go into bondage for his sake. That’s what he was building upon…. Why do you start? I know all the ins and outs of your affairs now, my dear boy—it’s not for nothing that you were so open with Pashenka when you were her prospective son-in-law, and I say all this as a friend…. But I tell you what it is; an honest and sensitive man is open; and a business man ‘listens and goes on eating’ you up. Well, then she gave the I O U by way of payment to this Tchebarov, and without hesitation he made a formal demand for payment. When I heard of all this I wanted to blow him up, too, to clear my conscience, but by that time harmony reigned between me and Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the whole affair, engaging that you would pay. I went security for you, brother. Do you understand? We called Tchebarov, flung him ten roubles and got the I O U back from him, and here I have the honour of presenting it to you. She trusts your word now. Here, take it, you see I have torn it.”
      Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked at him and turned to the wall without uttering a word. Even Razumihin felt a twinge.
      “I see, brother,” he said a moment later, “that I have been playing the fool again. I thought I should amuse you with my chatter, and I believe I have only made you cross.”
      “Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?” Raskolnikov asked, after a moment’s pause without turning his head.
      “Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought Zametov one day.”
      “Zametov? The head clerk? What for?” Raskolnikov turned round quickly and fixed his eyes on Razumihin.
      “What’s the matter with you?… What are you upset about? He wanted to make your acquaintance because I talked to him a lot about you…. How could I have found out so much except from him? He is a capital fellow, brother, first-rate… in his own way, of course. Now we are friends—see each other almost every day. I have moved into this part, you know. I have only just moved. I’ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna once or twice…. Do you remember Luise, Luise Ivanovna?
      “Did I say anything in delirium?”
      “I should think so! You were beside yourself.”
      “What did I rave about?”
      “What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about…. Well, brother, now I must not lose time. To work.” He got up from the table and took up his cap.
      “What did I rave about?”
      “How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some secret? Don’t worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot about a bulldog, and about ear-rings and chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent. And another thing that was of special interest to you was your own sock. You whined, ‘Give me my sock.’ Zametov hunted all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented, ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And only then were you comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched thing in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you asked so piteously for fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out what sort of fringe, but we could not make it out. Now to business! Here are thirty-five roubles; I take ten of them, and shall give you an account of them in an hour or two. I will let Zossimov know at the same time, though he ought to have been here long ago, for it is nearly twelve. And you, Nastasya, look in pretty often while I am away, to see whether he wants a drink or anything else. And I will tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Good-bye!”
      “He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he’s a deep one!” said Nastasya as he went out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not resist running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what he would say to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumihin.
      No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, twitching impatience he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to work. But to what work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him.
      “Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet or not? What if they know it and are only pretending, mocking me while I am laid up, and then they will come in and tell me that it’s been discovered long ago and that they have only… What am I to do now? That’s what I’ve forgotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I remembered a minute ago.”
      He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable bewilderment about him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he rushed to the corner where there was a hole under the paper, began examining it, put his hand into the hole, fumbled—but that was not it. He went to the stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; the frayed edges of his trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there just as he had thrown them. No one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock about which Razumihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it lay on the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered with dust and grime that Zametov could not have seen anything on it.
      “Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the police office? Where’s the notice? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was then. I looked at my sock then, too, but now… now I have been ill. But what did Zametov come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?” he muttered, helplessly sitting on the sofa again. “What does it mean? Am I still in delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real…. Ah, I remember; I must escape! Make haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes… but where? And where are my clothes? I’ve no boots. They’ve taken them away! They’ve hidden them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat—they passed that over! And here is money on the table, thank God! And here’s the I O U… I’ll take the money and go and take another lodging. They won’t find me!… Yes, but the address bureau? They’ll find me, Razumihin will find me. Better escape altogether… far away… to America, and let them do their worst! And take the I O U… it would be of use there…. What else shall I take? They think I am ill! They don’t know that I can walk, ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know all about it! If only I could get downstairs! And what if they have set a watch there—policemen! What’s this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a bottle, cold!”
      He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer, and gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a flame in his breast. But in another minute the beer had gone to his head, and a faint and even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the quilt over him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon him. With a sense of comfort he nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped more closely about him the soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the old, ragged greatcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing sleep.
      He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw Razumihin standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as though trying to recall something.
      “Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the parcel!” Razumihin shouted down the stairs. “You shall have the account directly.”
      “What time is it?” asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily.
      “Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it’s almost evening, it will be six o’clock directly. You have slept more than six hours.”
      “Good heavens! Have I?”
      “And why not? It will do you good. What’s the hurry? A tryst, is it? We’ve all time before us. I’ve been waiting for the last three hours for you; I’ve been up twice and found you asleep. I’ve called on Zossimov twice; not at home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. And I’ve been out on my own business, too. You know I’ve been moving to-day, moving with my uncle. I have an uncle living with me now. But that’s no matter, to business. Give me the parcel, Nastasya. We will open it directly. And how do you feel now, brother?”
      “I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you been here long?”
      “I tell you I’ve been waiting for the last three hours.”
      “No, before.”
      “How do you mean?”
      “How long have you been coming here?”
      “Why I told you all about it this morning. Don’t you remember?”
      Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream to him. He could not remember alone, and looked inquiringly at Razumihin.
      “Hm!” said the latter, “he has forgotten. I fancied then that you were not quite yourself. Now you are better for your sleep…. You really look much better. First-rate! Well, to business. Look here, my dear boy.”
      He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested him.
      “Believe me, brother, this is something specially near my heart. For we must make a man of you. Let’s begin from the top. Do you see this cap?” he said, taking out of the bundle a fairly good though cheap and ordinary cap. “Let me try it on.”
      “Presently, afterwards,” said Raskolnikov, waving it off pettishly.
      “Come, Rodya, my boy, don’t oppose it, afterwards will be too late; and I shan’t sleep all night, for I bought it by guess, without measure. Just right!” he cried triumphantly, fitting it on, “just your size! A proper head-covering is the first thing in dress and a recommendation in its own way. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine, is always obliged to take off his pudding basin when he goes into any public place where other people wear their hats or caps. People think he does it from slavish politeness, but it’s simply because he is ashamed of his bird’s nest; he is such a boastful fellow! Look, Nastasya, here are two specimens of headgear: this Palmerston”—he took from the corner Raskolnikov’s old, battered hat, which for some unknown reason, he called a Palmerston—”or this jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what do you suppose I paid for it, Nastasya!” he said, turning to her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak.
      “Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say,” answered Nastasya.
      “Twenty copecks, silly!” he cried, offended. “Why, nowadays you would cost more than that—eighty copecks! And that only because it has been worn. And it’s bought on condition that when’s it’s worn out, they will give you another next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now let us pass to the United States of America, as they called them at school. I assure you I am proud of these breeches,” and he exhibited to Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers of grey woollen material. “No holes, no spots, and quite respectable, although a little worn; and a waistcoat to match, quite in the fashion. And its being worn really is an improvement, it’s softer, smoother…. You see, Rodya, to my thinking, the great thing for getting on in the world is always to keep to the seasons; if you don’t insist on having asparagus in January, you keep your money in your purse; and it’s the same with this purchase. It’s summer now, so I’ve been buying summer things—warmer materials will be wanted for autumn, so you will have to throw these away in any case… especially as they will be done for by then from their own lack of coherence if not your higher standard of luxury. Come, price them! What do you say? Two roubles twenty-five copecks! And remember the condition: if you wear these out, you will have another suit for nothing! They only do business on that system at Fedyaev’s; if you’ve bought a thing once, you are satisfied for life, for you will never go there again of your own free will. Now for the boots. What do you say? You see that they are a bit worn, but they’ll last a couple of months, for it’s foreign work and foreign leather; the secretary of the English Embassy sold them last week—he had only worn them six days, but he was very short of cash. Price—a rouble and a half. A bargain?”
      “But perhaps they won’t fit,” observed Nastasya.
      “Not fit? Just look!” and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov’s old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. “I did not go empty-handed—they took the size from this monster. We all did our best. And as to your linen, your landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with are three shirts, hempen but with a fashionable front…. Well now then, eighty copecks the cap, two roubles twenty-five copecks the suit—together three roubles five copecks—a rouble and a half for the boots—for, you see, they are very good—and that makes four roubles fifty-five copecks; five roubles for the underclothes—they were bought in the lo—which makes exactly nine roubles fifty-five copecks. Forty-five copecks change in coppers. Will you take it? And so, Rodya, you are set up with a complete new rig-out, for your overcoat will serve, and even has a style of its own. That comes from getting one’s clothes from Sharmer’s! As for your socks and other things, I leave them to you; we’ve twenty-five roubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don’t you worry. I tell you she’ll trust you for anything. And now, brother, let me change your linen, for I daresay you will throw off your illness with your shirt.”
      “Let me be! I don’t want to!” Raskolnikov waved him off. He had listened with disgust to Razumihin’s efforts to be playful about his purchases.
      “Come, brother, don’t tell me I’ve been trudging around for nothing,” Razumihin insisted. “Nastasya, don’t be bashful, but help me—that’s it,” and in spite of Raskolnikov’s resistance he changed his linen. The latter sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two said nothing.
      “It will be long before I get rid of them,” he thought. “What money was all that bought with?” he asked at last, gazing at the wall.
      “Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, your mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?”
      “I remember now,” said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence. Razumihin looked at him, frowning and uneasy.
      The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance seemed familiar to Raskolnikov came in.

      CHAPTER IV

      Zossimov was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless, clean-shaven face and straight flaxen hair. He wore spectacles, and a big gold ring on his fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He had on a light grey fashionable loose coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him loose, fashionable and spick and span; his linen was irreproachable, his watch-chain was massive. In manner he was slow and, as it were, nonchalant, and at the same time studiously free and easy; he made efforts to conceal his self-importance, but it was apparent at every instant. All his acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever at his work.
      “I’ve been to you twice to-day, brother. You see, he’s come to himself,” cried Razumihin.
      “I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?” said Zossimov to Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and, sitting down at the foot of the sofa, he settled himself as comfortably as he could.
      “He is still depressed,” Razumihin went on. “We’ve just changed his linen and he almost cried.”
      “That’s very natural; you might have put it off if he did not wish it…. His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still aching, eh?”
      “I am well, I am perfectly well!” Raskolnikov declared positively and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and looked at them with glittering eyes, but sank back on to the pillow at once and turned to the wall. Zossimov watched him intently.
      “Very good…. Going on all right,” he said lazily. “Has he eaten anything?”
      They told him, and asked what he might have.
      “He may have anything… soup, tea… mushrooms and cucumbers, of course, you must not give him; he’d better not have meat either, and… but no need to tell you that!” Razumihin and he looked at each other. “No more medicine or anything. I’ll look at him again to-morrow. Perhaps, to-day even… but never mind…”
      “To-morrow evening I shall take him for a walk,” said Razumihin. “We are going to the Yusupov garden and then to the Palais de Crystal.”
      “I would not disturb him to-morrow at all, but I don’t know… a little, maybe… but we’ll see.”
      “Ach, what a nuisance! I’ve got a house-warming party to-night; it’s only a step from here. Couldn’t he come? He could lie on the sofa. You are coming?” Razumihin said to Zossimov. “Don’t forget, you promised.”
      “All right, only rather later. What are you going to do?”
      “Oh, nothing—tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie… just our friends.”
      “And who?”
      “All neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle, and he is new too—he only arrived in Petersburg yesterday to see to some business of his. We meet once in five years.”
      “What is he?”
      “He’s been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; gets a little pension. He is sixty-five—not worth talking about…. But I am fond of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the head of the Investigation Department here… But you know him.”
      “Is he a relation of yours, too?”
      “A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarrelled once, won’t you come then?”
      “I don’t care a damn for him.”
      “So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a teacher, a government clerk, a musician, an officer and Zametov.”
      “Do tell me, please, what you or he”—Zossimov nodded at Raskolnikov—”can have in common with this Zametov?”
      “Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are worked by principles, as it were by springs; you won’t venture to turn round on your own account. If a man is a nice fellow, that’s the only principle I go upon. Zametov is a delightful person.”
      “Though he does take bribes.”
      “Well, he does! and what of it? I don’t care if he does take bribes,” Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. “I don’t praise him for taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own way! But if one looks at men in all ways—are there many good ones left? Why, I am sure I shouldn’t be worth a baked onion myself… perhaps with you thrown in.”
      “That’s too little; I’d give two for you.”
      “And I wouldn’t give more than one for you. No more of your jokes! Zametov is no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and one must draw him not repel him. You’ll never improve a man by repelling him, especially a boy. One has to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you progressive dullards! You don’t understand. You harm yourselves running another man down…. But if you want to know, we really have something in common.”
      “I should like to know what.”
      “Why, it’s all about a house-painter…. We are getting him out of a mess! Though indeed there’s nothing to fear now. The matter is absolutely self-evident. We only put on steam.”
      “A painter?”
      “Why, haven’t I told you about it? I only told you the beginning then about the murder of the old pawnbroker-woman. Well, the painter is mixed up in it…”
      “Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it… partly… for one reason…. I read about it in the papers, too….”
      “Lizaveta was murdered, too,” Nastasya blurted out, suddenly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door listening.
      “Lizaveta,” murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.
      “Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn’t you know her? She used to come here. She mended a shirt for you, too.”
      Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals and how many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the flower.
      “But what about the painter?” Zossimov interrupted Nastasya’s chatter with marked displeasure. She sighed and was silent.
      “Why, he was accused of the murder,” Razumihin went on hotly.
      “Was there evidence against him then?”
      “Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evidence, and that’s what we have to prove. It was just as they pitched on those fellows, Koch and Pestryakov, at first. Foo! how stupidly it’s all done, it makes one sick, though it’s not one’s business! Pestryakov may be coming to-night…. By the way, Rodya, you’ve heard about the business already; it happened before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the police office while they were talking about it.”
      Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not stir.
      “But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a busybody you are!” Zossimov observed.
      “Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway,” shouted Razumihin, bringing his fist down on the table. “What’s the most offensive is not their lying—one can always forgive lying—lying is a delightful thing, for it leads to truth—what is offensive is that they lie and worship their own lying…. I respect Porfiry, but… What threw them out at first? The door was locked, and when they came back with the porter it was open. So it followed that Koch and Pestryakov were the murderers—that was their logic!”
      “But don’t excite yourself; they simply detained them, they could not help that…. And, by the way, I’ve met that man Koch. He used to buy unredeemed pledges from the old woman? Eh?”
      “Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He makes a profession of it. But enough of him! Do you know what makes me angry? It’s their sickening rotten, petrified routine…. And this case might be the means of introducing a new method. One can show from the psychological data alone how to get on the track of the real man. ‘We have facts,’ they say. But facts are not everything—at least half the business lies in how you interpret them!”
      “Can you interpret them, then?”
      “Anyway, one can’t hold one’s tongue when one has a feeling, a tangible feeling, that one might be a help if only…. Eh! Do you know the details of the case?”
      “I am waiting to hear about the painter.”
      “Oh, yes! Well, here’s the story. Early on the third day after the murder, when they were still dandling Koch and Pestryakov—though they accounted for every step they took and it was as plain as a pikestaff—an unexpected fact turned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a dram-shop facing the house, brought to the police office a jeweller’s case containing some gold ear-rings, and told a long rigamarole. ‘The day before yesterday, just after eight o’clock’—mark the day and the hour!—’a journeyman house-painter, Nikolay, who had been in to see me already that day, brought me this box of gold ear-rings and stones, and asked me to give him two roubles for them. When I asked him where he got them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I did not ask him anything more.’ I am telling you Dushkin’s story. ‘I gave him a note’—a rouble that is—’for I thought if he did not pawn it with me he would with another. It would all come to the same thing—he’d spend it on drink, so the thing had better be with me. The further you hide it the quicker you will find it, and if anything turns up, if I hear any rumours, I’ll take it to the police.’ Of course, that’s all taradiddle; he lies like a horse, for I know this Dushkin, he is a pawnbroker and a receiver of stolen goods, and he did not cheat Nikolay out of a thirty-rouble trinket in order to give it to the police. He was simply afraid. But no matter, to return to Dushkin’s story. ‘I’ve known this peasant, Nikolay Dementyev, from a child; he comes from the same province and district of Zaraïsk, we are both Ryazan men. And though Nikolay is not a drunkard, he drinks, and I knew he had a job in that house, painting work with Dmitri, who comes from the same village, too. As soon as he got the rouble he changed it, had a couple of glasses, took his change and went out. But I did not see Dmitri with him then. And the next day I heard that someone had murdered Alyona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an axe. I knew them, and I felt suspicious about the ear-rings at once, for I knew the murdered woman lent money on pledges. I went to the house, and began to make careful inquiries without saying a word to anyone. First of all I asked, “Is Nikolay here?” Dmitri told me that Nikolay had gone off on the spree; he had come home at daybreak drunk, stayed in the house about ten minutes, and went out again. Dmitri didn’t see him again and is finishing the job alone. And their job is on the same staircase as the murder, on the second floor. When I heard all that I did not say a word to anyone’—that’s Dushkin’s tale—’but I found out what I could about the murder, and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at eight o’clock this morning’—that was the third day, you understand—’I saw Nikolay coming in, not sober, though not to say very drunk—he could understand what was said to him. He sat down on the bench and did not speak. There was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep on a bench and our two boys. “Have you seen Dmitri?” said I. “No, I haven’t,” said he. “And you’ve not been here either?” “Not since the day before yesterday,” said he. “And where did you sleep last night?” “In Peski, with the Kolomensky men.” “And where did you get those ear-rings?” I asked. “I found them in the street,” and the way he said it was a bit queer; he did not look at me. “Did you hear what happened that very evening, at that very hour, on that same staircase?” said I. “No,” said he, “I had not heard,” and all the while he was listening, his eyes were staring out of his head and he turned as white as chalk. I told him all about it and he took his hat and began getting up. I wanted to keep him. “Wait a bit, Nikolay,” said I, “won’t you have a drink?” And I signed to the boy to hold the door, and I came out from behind the bar; but he darted out and down the street to the turning at a run. I have not seen him since. Then my doubts were at an end—it was his doing, as clear as could be….’”
      “I should think so,” said Zossimov.
      “Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and low for Nikolay; they detained Dushkin and searched his house; Dmitri, too, was arrested; the Kolomensky men also were turned inside out. And the day before yesterday they arrested Nikolay in a tavern at the end of the town. He had gone there, taken the silver cross off his neck and asked for a dram for it. They gave it to him. A few minutes afterwards the woman went to the cowshed, and through a crack in the wall she saw in the stable adjoining he had made a noose of his sash from the beam, stood on a block of wood, and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman screeched her hardest; people ran in. ‘So that’s what you are up to!’ ‘Take me,’ he says, ‘to such-and-such a police officer; I’ll confess everything.’ Well, they took him to that police station—that is here—with a suitable escort. So they asked him this and that, how old he is, ‘twenty-two,’ and so on. At the question, ‘When you were working with Dmitri, didn’t you see anyone on the staircase at such-and-such a time?’—answer: ‘To be sure folks may have gone up and down, but I did not notice them.’ ‘And didn’t you hear anything, any noise, and so on?’ ‘We heard nothing special.’ ‘And did you hear, Nikolay, that on the same day Widow So-and-so and her sister were murdered and robbed?’ ‘I never knew a thing about it. The first I heard of it was from Afanasy Pavlovitch the day before yesterday.’ ‘And where did you find the ear-rings?’ ‘I found them on the pavement.’ ‘Why didn’t you go to work with Dmitri the other day?’ ‘Because I was drinking.’ ‘And where were you drinking?’ ‘Oh, in such-and-such a place.’ ‘Why did you run away from Dushkin’s?’ ‘Because I was awfully frightened.’ ‘What were you frightened of?’ ‘That I should be accused.’ ‘How could you be frightened, if you felt free from guilt?’ Now, Zossimov, you may not believe me, that question was put literally in those words. I know it for a fact, it was repeated to me exactly! What do you say to that?”
      “Well, anyway, there’s the evidence.”
      “I am not talking of the evidence now, I am talking about that question, of their own idea of themselves. Well, so they squeezed and squeezed him and he confessed: ‘I did not find it in the street, but in the flat where I was painting with Dmitri.’ ‘And how was that?’ ‘Why, Dmitri and I were painting there all day, and we were just getting ready to go, and Dmitri took a brush and painted my face, and he ran off and I after him. I ran after him, shouting my hardest, and at the bottom of the stairs I ran right against the porter and some gentlemen—and how many gentlemen were there I don’t remember. And the porter swore at me, and the other porter swore, too, and the porter’s wife came out, and swore at us, too; and a gentleman came into the entry with a lady, and he swore at us, too, for Dmitri and I lay right across the way. I got hold of Dmitri’s hair and knocked him down and began beating him. And Dmitri, too, caught me by the hair and began beating me. But we did it all not for temper but in a friendly way, for sport. And then Dmitri escaped and ran into the street, and I ran after him; but I did not catch him, and went back to the flat alone; I had to clear up my things. I began putting them together, expecting Dmitri to come, and there in the passage, in the corner by the door, I stepped on the box. I saw it lying there wrapped up in paper. I took off the paper, saw some little hooks, undid them, and in the box were the ear-rings….’”
      “Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the door?” Raskolnikov cried suddenly, staring with a blank look of terror at Razumihin, and he slowly sat up on the sofa, leaning on his hand.
      “Yes… why? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” Razumihin, too, got up from his seat.
      “Nothing,” Raskolnikov answered faintly, turning to the wall. All were silent for a while.
      “He must have waked from a dream,” Razumihin said at last, looking inquiringly at Zossimov. The latter slightly shook his head.
      “Well, go on,” said Zossimov. “What next?”
      “What next? As soon as he saw the ear-rings, forgetting Dmitri and everything, he took up his cap and ran to Dushkin and, as we know, got a rouble from him. He told a lie saying he found them in the street, and went off drinking. He keeps repeating his old story about the murder: ‘I know nothing of it, never heard of it till the day before yesterday.’ ‘And why didn’t you come to the police till now?’ ‘I was frightened.’ ‘And why did you try to hang yourself?’ ‘From anxiety.’ ‘What anxiety?’ ‘That I should be accused of it.’ Well, that’s the whole story. And now what do you suppose they deduced from that?”
      “Why, there’s no supposing. There’s a clue, such as it is, a fact. You wouldn’t have your painter set free?”
      “Now they’ve simply taken him for the murderer. They haven’t a shadow of doubt.”
      “That’s nonsense. You are excited. But what about the ear-rings? You must admit that, if on the very same day and hour ear-rings from the old woman’s box have come into Nikolay’s hands, they must have come there somehow. That’s a good deal in such a case.”
      “How did they get there? How did they get there?” cried Razumihin. “How can you, a doctor, whose duty it is to study man and who has more opportunity than anyone else for studying human nature—how can you fail to see the character of the man in the whole story? Don’t you see at once that the answers he has given in the examination are the holy truth? They came into his hand precisely as he has told us—he stepped on the box and picked it up.”
      “The holy truth! But didn’t he own himself that he told a lie at first?”
      “Listen to me, listen attentively. The porter and Koch and Pestryakov and the other porter and the wife of the first porter and the woman who was sitting in the porter’s lodge and the man Kryukov, who had just got out of a cab at that minute and went in at the entry with a lady on his arm, that is eight or ten witnesses, agree that Nikolay had Dmitri on the ground, was lying on him beating him, while Dmitri hung on to his hair, beating him, too. They lay right across the way, blocking the thoroughfare. They were sworn at on all sides while they ‘like children’ (the very words of the witnesses) were falling over one another, squealing, fighting and laughing with the funniest faces, and, chasing one another like children, they ran into the street. Now take careful note. The bodies upstairs were warm, you understand, warm when they found them! If they, or Nikolay alone, had murdered them and broken open the boxes, or simply taken part in the robbery, allow me to ask you one question: do their state of mind, their squeals and giggles and childish scuffling at the gate fit in with axes, bloodshed, fiendish cunning, robbery? They’d just killed them, not five or ten minutes before, for the bodies were still warm, and at once, leaving the flat open, knowing that people would go there at once, flinging away their booty, they rolled about like children, laughing and attracting general attention. And there are a dozen witnesses to swear to that!”
      “Of course it is strange! It’s impossible, indeed, but…”
      “No, brother, no buts. And if the ear-rings being found in Nikolay’s hands at the very day and hour of the murder constitutes an important piece of circumstantial evidence against him—although the explanation given by him accounts for it, and therefore it does not tell seriously against him—one must take into consideration the facts which prove him innocent, especially as they are facts that cannot be denied. And do you suppose, from the character of our legal system, that they will accept, or that they are in a position to accept, this fact—resting simply on a psychological impossibility—as irrefutable and conclusively breaking down the circumstantial evidence for the prosecution? No, they won’t accept it, they certainly won’t, because they found the jewel-case and the man tried to hang himself, ‘which he could not have done if he hadn’t felt guilty.’ That’s the point, that’s what excites me, you must understand!”
      “Oh, I see you are excited! Wait a bit. I forgot to ask you; what proof is there that the box came from the old woman?”
      “That’s been proved,” said Razumihin with apparent reluctance, frowning. “Koch recognised the jewel-case and gave the name of the owner, who proved conclusively that it was his.”
      “That’s bad. Now another point. Did anyone see Nikolay at the time that Koch and Pestryakov were going upstairs at first, and is there no evidence about that?”
      “Nobody did see him,” Razumihin answered with vexation. “That’s the worst of it. Even Koch and Pestryakov did not notice them on

  2. Herr Doktor Professor Deth Vegetable says:

    K-Razy.

  3. Salsa Shark says:

    Is there a reason why SFPD doesn’t have a foot patrol assigned to 16th & Mission 24/7?

    • Matt Haze says:

      I’ve often wondered the same thing…

    • trixr4kids says:

      bart has its own police force. they usually aren’t around either, unless they feel like shooting someone.

    • Kiosk says:

      In the late ’80′s there was a strong arm robbery/murder at the Wells Fargo on 16th. The city planted a cop kiosk in the plaza. It was supposed to be staffed, but the cops were rarely there. Maybe sometimes during the day but never at night.

      • spike says:

        I remember the kiosk, I think they called it a cabana or something. Yeah, great idea, but you need to staff it. It quickly became a storage locker for SFPD and nothing more.

        I’ve lived in the area since 1991, and it never ceases to amaze me the lack of police presence. There are undercover cops on occasion, tho.

  4. Greg says:

    That dude should work for PG&E.

  5. dracula says:

    Mr.Mission!

  6. Sam says:

    “Naked, sitting, pissing, *splitting* dude”

  7. Chelsee CHELS says:

    OK.. this is Oliver Piazza, right?

  8. Tommy says:

    You wouldn’t even think that maybe austerity and massive state and city budget cuts might be part of the problem there are more and more psychotic people on the streets? It’s just ‘wow’ …and ‘what a photo’! But then, Allan and Vic, you just don’t have ‘strong opinions’ about anything. You just don’t have any connection whatsoever with what your government is doing. It’s like there are not wars going on, no bailouts of casino finance sector, no massive increase in poverty , even in SF in case you didn’t notice….wherein black and latino youth unemployment rates have doubled since Obama took office. But you’re all doing fine, so take pictures and oogle. Look at the crazy fuck! OMG! Crazy fucks in the city! BREAKING another shooting, as andrew posted. OMG! You are voyeurs completely dis connected with what is going on in this country. I just can’t comprehend your passive apolitical giddiness. Don’t you even WONDER why that person didn’t get help, or maybe had it, and it was cut off?

    • Valenchia says:

      uh uh, or maybe there is a different answer; but you are way too wrapped up in your ideology to even think about it. Sorry, rants like yours are just tedious and show how bankrupt your ideology is.

      • John Q Citizen says:

        You are a tedious moron. Tommy is right. ALL These things are connected. But you just keep telling yourself that “ideology” is tedious.

        • blah says:

          There is a time and place for everything. This just isn’t (necessarily) the place for in-depth political discourse. It’s a casual blog with a casual tone. If people want a different kind of analysis, they can either (1) bitch and moan pointlessly, or (2) go read something else (like indybay, or z magazine, for example), or listen to KPFA, or whatever. Fortunately, not every aspect of reality needs to be converted into a lecture on dialectical materialism and late capitalist excess.

          • Herr Doktor Professor Deth Vegetable says:

            Uh, no. Immediately after an event that would be preventable through a change in policy is EXACTLY the time to discuss that change in policy. Otherwise it naturally slips from the public consciousness.

        • SFdoggy says:

          Sorry John Q, but one can have intelligent views on politics without turning everything into the same vapid rant. Just because things are connected does not mean that everything should be spun to promote your ideology. But neither you or tommy understand that.

    • Blahblah says:

      Thank you. Not everyone is asleep to the fucking failure that is democracy.

      • blah says:

        >the fucking failure that is democracy

        As opposed to the smashing success that is monarchy? Or what?

        If you’re gonna call democracy a failure, I hope you’re ready to describe what constitutes success.

        • twobeers says:

          This country is not a democracy, at least above the level of dogcatcher. USA is an outright oligarchy/plutocracy, where you are given the choice of a few pre-selected conmen to choose from.

          • Tommy says:

            twobeers right as usual as is blah. This is not a democracy. Most of the posters on this blog, are so leader worship blind, they can’t even see that a bigger crash is coming. And if you do bring it up, it’s called a ‘rant’.
            well here is a financial blog….by people in the industry. nakedcapitalism.org.
            and here is one that one hundred thousand people a month visit with far left views, and they were ALL right before the last bubble. Hmmm wonder why?
            counterpunch.org.
            So I should just comment on those blogs? When blithe, playground kids blog calls itself after the Mission District? Indeed. And when you post sad pictures of people obviously insane…I should not rant about that? Sorry I’ve lived here for 25 years, giving back to crazy scum, and bums and vets…and ect…cuz they are my fellow citizens. Not a fucking joke of a picture. This is not a photograph.

          • truth says:

            you can always tell the rhetoric of half-witted reactionaries when they point to one of society’s whoah and then blindly point a finger at Obama. if you think unemployment rates have anything to do with Obama or anything to do with whoever’s sitting in the white house, you should spend less time typing and more time reading.

          • BubblyWater says:

            for the win!

    • James says:

      Tommy,

      I am so sick and tired of ass holes blaming Obama for shit!!! Work has always been hard to find. But please stop blaming someone who has tried to turn this fucked up economy around. Jobs are out there. And if selfish jerks would hire people just like concerned human beings and stop trying to use Obama as an excuse (ALL THE TIME) and as a scapegoat then no one (like you) would buy into that false bullshit! GET OVER IT!

  9. Ed Lee says:

    I’d be worried if people weren’t going crazy. One happy drone, single tone mess where the world is safe from human impulses.
    Worlds not perfect is it Tommy? You wanna live in Marin, go there, or Tommy, fucking do something, heal the “insane”, “unhealthy” “unruly” “nudists” “pedophiles”,”perverts”,”poor”,”rich”,”dirty”,”terrorists” and if you’re not gonna do that go fuck a reclaimed wood table, then top it off with a haircut.
    You’re bitching on a blog where “Food and Drink”, “Music” and “Art” are the top posted categories.

    • Blahblah says:

      So there is no line to be drawn? There is no point where things are so bad that they ought to be reckoned?

    • Tommy says:

      So segmented comments are your rule? Where a blog calls itself after the Mission District, I can’t bitch about how apolitical and vapid the posters are? It’s like sitting on a spot where people for one hundred years have struggled and won, and most often lost against rapacious militarism and speculative capital, and blowing a fart. Then when I say your fart stinks to holy mussolini heaven, you say I didn’t have to smell it.

      • blah says:

        >So . . . I can’t bitch ?

        You certainly *can* bitch. But to what end? And why do you assume everyone is apolitical and vapid just because they aren’t citing Walter Benjamin in their comments on a blog? I have pretty strong political views, but I don’t assume that everybody else wants me to ram them down their throat.

        Anyhow it’s weird, b/c I don’t really disagree with you, and there’s nothing wrong with bringing politics out into the open. Not sure why I jumped to the defense of the original post, though you gotta admit it’s a weird situation and a pretty striking photo.

      • truth says:

        IF ONLY OBAMA’S CROOKED GOVERNMENT WASN’T STOPPING TOMMY FROM STARTING HIS OWN BLOG

  10. DDD says:

    The cops were probably too busy giving parking tickets to busy mothers who are just a couple of minutes late getting back to their car because the 3 year old isn’t cooperating (happened to my wife recently). It’s always been my experience that when you really need cops (at least in the Bay Area), they are absolutely NEVER there for you (like when we caught my former landlord Mitra Hoseinyar’s daughter Alma breaking into our house, and the cops were of little help). They always seem to be RIGHT THERE to ticket you when you come to only a 90% rather than 100% stop at a stop sign though!

    • bug says:

      I hear you and I agree. And…as a side note…there is no such thing as a 90% stop at a stop sign. You stop or you don’t stop. As a sometimes car and sometimes bike rider, I can tell you, when someone “90% stops” like that and you’re bombing down the hill on your bike, that ten percent can make a difference between life and death. It did to my friend.

    • truth says:

      yes, you should totally be allowed to park illegally if you can’t control your children. society doesn’t reward people enough for breeding already.

  11. Dave says:

    why didnt people call and say someone was there with a large weapon… gun control is all the rage these days, ill bet the cops would have swarmed… dummies

    • blah says:

      Great idea. I’m sure the BART cops would never just shoot somebody if they weren’t actually armed. Oh wait…

  12. Grade a cunt says:

    Was just gonna say Oliver and his doppelgänger ups man older twin both have to cut thier hair now. Thanks pcp guy. Haha. Hi Chelsee!

  13. jack says:

    why didn’t anyone just squash the dickhead and shut him down? oh yeah, cause everyone in this city now is weak and sad. sure call the SFPD… might as well call your mom. SF citizens need to start ACTING like nyc citizens: grow some balls and help one another out! stop relying on the PD to assist… take control and help yourselves and orhers right here / right now. and if you don’t know how take a offensive self defense course until you do feel comfortable helping squash a scene like this and saving your life or sparing others of this tragedy. seriously! fight back!!

    • @AnonyOdinn says:

      Exactly. Big ups to jack for mentioning it and hitting it spot on. WTF people, it’s one person. You gonna wait 20, 30, 40 minutes for a cop or three to show up? What’s with the comments from salsa shark, mark haze, and F, etc.? why do you all keep calling for cops? Don’t be sheeple, be people! Wake the fuck up!

      • Jen says:

        HE HAD A HARD DICK!!! IT WAS HUGE I WAS THERE> HE WAS STRONGER THAN EVERYONE> HE WAS ON PCP!!!! I KNOW THAT EVERYONE ON HERE JUST “MOVED TO SF ” BUT PCP GIVES YOU SUPERPOWERS. LOOK IT UP! BETTER YET TRY SOME DUMB FUCKS.. I WAS THERE! HE WAS UNCONTROLLABLE.

      • armchaircomments says:

        Yeah you say that while behind your keyboard. I think people step up here and in cities other than NYC. Honestly it is really a matter of training. If you feel so strong about this hold some classes on how to restrain people. Tell people how they can grapple with someone without getting their ears eaten off. Also you need to train them to hold someone indefinitely for the police to come. You can also teach people how to do this in groups. Otherwise, just trying to swoop in could be a disaster for both people. Perhaps this guys was high or perhaps they just lost it. If he just lost it he doesn’t deserve to get shot which is what might happen if things escalated.

        > You gonna wait 20, 30, 40 minutes for a cop or three to show up?

        I think people thought the BART police would come sooner. I don’t know if SFPD would come in this case.

    • Herr Doktor Professor Deth Vegetable says:

      Whatever you say, Internet ToughGuy, whatever you say.

      Pff.

    • Miss415 says:

      Everyone? I don’t think so~ perhaps if you are talking about all the SF citizens who came here from somewhere else in the world, but those of us born & raised here do fight back & do help strangers in danger. Sorry to get all bent outa shape but if you don’t like the city, kick rocks jack!

    • fish says:

      actually there is a video of this incident floating around on the internet. there was a very kind black gentlemen that came to the aid of a woman that was being assaulted and the old man that was being assaulted. the bart employee brought the woman into the little office and invited the hero man defender in there too. but once the guy (on drugs or just losing his mind au natural) started assaulting another woman the hero ran out of the office and came to her defense as well. the guy never laid him out but he did push him away from the person who was being attacked and helped the person get away. this isn’t just a reply to your comment but to a lot of people who are saying that no one did anything. an ordinary citizen did.. without being overly aggressive… he knew when it was a good time to get in there and help and when it was a good time to back off. he protected himself and several other people. that is definitely commendable behavior.

      you must be a real hater if you call EVERY person in an entire city weak. what is wrong with you? it’s called a fight or flight response.. and personally if I think someone is jacked up on a drug that makes them not feel pain and makes them much stronger.. I am probably going with the flight response.. it’s not being weak it’s being smart.

  14. JT says:

    Absolutely right Jack and Anonodinn. Wake up! The cops don’t instantaneously appear when you dial the magic 3 numbers 9-1-1.

    • Jen says:

      HE HAD A HARD DICK!!! IT WAS HUGE I WAS THERE> HE WAS STRONGER THAN EVERYONE> HE WAS ON PCP!!!! I KNOW THAT EVERYONE ON HERE JUST “MOVED TO SF ” BUT PCP GIVES YOU SUPERPOWERS. LOOK IT UP! BETTER YET TRY SOME DUMB FUCKS.. I WAS THERE! HE WAS UNCONTROLLABLE

    • russianriver says:

      “If it all has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, if I really had a certain and definite object, how is it I did not even glance into the purse and don’t know what I had there, for which I have undergone these agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this base, filthy degrading business? And here I wanted at once to throw into the water the purse together with all the things which I had not seen either… how’s that?”
      Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all before, and it was not a new question for him, even when it was decided in the night without hesitation and consideration, as though so it must be, as though it could not possibly be otherwise…. Yes, he had known it all, and understood it all; it surely had all been settled even yesterday at the moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the jewel-cases out of it…. Yes, so it was.
      “It is because I am very ill,” he decided grimly at last, “I have been worrying and fretting myself, and I don’t know what I am doing…. Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I have been worrying myself…. I shall get well and I shall not worry…. But what if I don’t get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!”
      He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A new overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him every moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred. All who met him were loathsome to him—he loathed their faces, their movements, their gestures. If anyone had addressed him, he felt that he might have spat at him or bitten him….
      He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, near the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. “Why, he lives here, in that house,” he thought, “why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here it’s the same thing over again…. Very interesting to know, though; have I come on purpose or have I simply walked here by chance? Never mind, I said the day before yesterday that I would go and see him the day after; well, and so I will! Besides I really cannot go further now.”
      He went up to Razumihin’s room on the fifth floor.
      The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the moment, and he opened the door himself. It was four months since they had seen each other. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on his bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise.
      “Is it you?” he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a brief pause, he whistled. “As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you’ve cut me out!” he added, looking at Raskolnikov’s rags. “Come sit down, you are tired, I’ll be bound.”
      And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was in even worse condition than his own, Razumihin saw at once that his visitor was ill.
      “Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?” He began feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.
      “Never mind,” he said, “I have come for this: I have no lessons…. I wanted,… but I don’t really want lessons….”
      “But I say! You are delirious, you know!” Razumihin observed, watching him carefully.
      “No, I am not.”
      Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to Razumihin’s, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friend face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of all disposed for at that moment was to be face to face with anyone in the wide world. His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at himself as soon as he crossed Razumihin’s threshold.
      “Good-bye,” he said abruptly, and walked to the door.
      “Stop, stop! You queer fish.”
      “I don’t want to,” said the other, again pulling away his hand.
      “Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this is… almost insulting! I won’t let you go like that.”
      “Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could help… to begin… because you are kinder than anyone—cleverer, I mean, and can judge… and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at all… no one’s services… no one’s sympathy. I am by myself… alone. Come, that’s enough. Leave me alone.”
      “Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all I care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don’t care about that, but there’s a bookseller, Heruvimov—and he takes the place of a lesson. I would not exchange him for five lessons. He’s doing publishing of a kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circulation they have! The very titles are worth the money! You always maintained that I was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fools than I am! Now he is setting up for being advanced, not that he has an inkling of anything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of the German text—in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discusses the question, ‘Is woman a human being?’ And, of course, triumphantly proves that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as a contribution to the woman question; I am translating it; he will expand these two and a half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous title half a page long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! He pays me six roubles the signature, it works out to about fifteen roubles for the job, and I’ve had six already in advance. When we have finished this, we are going to begin a translation about whales, and then some of the dullest scandals out of the second part of Les Confessions we have marked for translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was a kind of Radishchev. You may be sure I don’t contradict him, hang him! Well, would you like to do the second signature of ‘Is woman a human being?’ If you would, take the German and pens and paper—all those are provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles in advance on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for your share. And when you have finished the signature there will be another three roubles for you. And please don’t think I am doing you a service; quite the contrary, as soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to begin with, I am weak in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes utterly adrift in German, so that I make it up as I go along for the most part. The only comfort is, that it’s bound to be a change for the better. Though who can tell, maybe it’s sometimes for the worse. Will you take it?”
      Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three roubles and without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in astonishment. But when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the stairs to Razumihin’s again and laying on the table the German article and the three roubles, went out again, still without uttering a word.
      “Are you raving, or what?” Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last. “What farce is this? You’ll drive me crazy too… what did you come to see me for, damn you?”
      “I don’t want… translation,” muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.
      “Then what the devil do you want?” shouted Razumihin from above. Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.
      “Hey, there! Where are you living?”
      No answer.
      “Well, confound you then!”
      But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under his horses’ hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle of the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He heard laughter, of course.
      “Serves him right!”
      “A pickpocket I dare say.”
      “Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on purpose; and you have to answer for him.”
      “It’s a regular profession, that’s what it is.”
      But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.
      “Take it, my good man, in Christ’s name.”
      He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. From his dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar asking alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty copecks he doubtless owed to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.
      He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without a cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished. The pain from the lash went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had hundreds of times—generally on his way home—stood still on this spot, gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely cold; this gorgeous picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and grotesque, that he should have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him… so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him now—all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all…. He felt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.
      Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember. Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on the sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion….
      It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what a scream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears, blows and curses he had never heard.
      He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the fighting, wailing and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement he caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not make out what she was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be beaten, for she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost a croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly and indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov trembled; he recognised the voice—it was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against the steps—that’s clear, that can be told from the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world topsy-turvy? He could hear people running in crowds from all the storeys and all the staircases; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking, doors banging. “But why, why, and how could it be?” he repeated, thinking seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly! And they would come to him then next, “for no doubt… it’s all about that… about yesterday…. Good God!” He would have fastened his door with the latch, but he could not lift his hand… besides, it would be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed him…. But at last all this uproar, after continuing about ten minutes, began gradually to subside. The landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still uttering threats and curses…. But at last he, too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. “Can he have gone away? Good Lord!” Yes, and now the landlady is going too, still weeping and moaning… and then her door slammed…. Now the crowd was going from the stairs to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling to one another, raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a whisper. There must have been numbers of them—almost all the inmates of the block. “But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come here!”
      Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. He lay for half an hour in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation of infinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he was not asleep, she set the candle on the table and began to lay out what she had brought—bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.
      “You’ve eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You’ve been trudging about all day, and you’re shaking with fever.”
      “Nastasya… what were they beating the landlady for?”
      She looked intently at him.
      “Who beat the landlady?”
      “Just now… half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent, on the stairs…. Why was he ill-treating her like that, and… why was he here?”
      Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted a long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.
      “Nastasya, why don’t you speak?” he said timidly at last in a weak voice.
      “It’s the blood,” she answered at last softly, as though speaking to herself.
      “Blood? What blood?” he muttered, growing white and turning towards the wall.
      Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.
      “Nobody has been beating the landlady,” she declared at last in a firm, resolute voice.
      He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.
      “I heard it myself…. I was not asleep… I was sitting up,” he said still more timidly. “I listened a long while. The assistant superintendent came…. Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all the flats.”
      “No one has been here. That’s the blood crying in your ears. When there’s no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancying things…. Will you eat something?”
      He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.
      “Give me something to drink… Nastasya.”
      She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of water. He remembered only swallowing one sip of the cold water and spilling some on his neck. Then followed forgetfulness.

      CHAPTER III

      He was not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious. He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though there were a number of people round him; they wanted to take him away somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid of him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to look at him; they threatened him, plotted something together, laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished another person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he could not remember who he was, and this fretted him, even made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been lying there a month; at other times it all seemed part of the same day. But of that—of that he had no recollection, and yet every minute he felt that he had forgotten something he ought to remember. He worried and tormented himself trying to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up, would have run away, but someone always prevented him by force, and he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness. At last he returned to complete consciousness.
      It happened at ten o’clock in the morning. On fine days the sun shone into the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on the right wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing beside him with another person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him very inquisitively. He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full, short-waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady was peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up.
      “Who is this, Nastasya?” he asked, pointing to the young man.
      “I say, he’s himself again!” she said.
      “He is himself,” echoed the man.
      Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations or discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat and buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and laziness, and absurdly bashful.
      “Who… are you?” he went on, addressing the man. But at that moment the door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall, Razumihin came in.
      “What a cabin it is!” he cried. “I am always knocking my head. You call this a lodging! So you are conscious, brother? I’ve just heard the news from Pashenka.”
      “He has just come to,” said Nastasya.
      “Just come to,” echoed the man again, with a smile.
      “And who are you?” Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. “My name is Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I am always called, but Vrazumihin, a student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are you?”
      “I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and I’ve come on business.”
      “Please sit down.” Razumihin seated himself on the other side of the table. “It’s a good thing you’ve come to, brother,” he went on to Raskolnikov. “For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at once it was nothing serious—something seemed to have gone to your head. Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you have not had enough beer and radish, but it’s nothing much, it will pass and you will be all right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow! He is making quite a name. Come, I won’t keep you,” he said, addressing the man again. “Will you explain what you want? You must know, Rodya, this is the second time they have sent from the office; but it was another man last time, and I talked to him. Who was it came before?”
      “That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please, sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in our office, too.”
      “He was more intelligent than you, don’t you think so?”
      “Yes, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am.”
      “Quite so; go on.”
      “At your mamma’s request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, of whom I presume you have heard more than once, a remittance is sent to you from our office,” the man began, addressing Raskolnikov. “If you are in an intelligible condition, I’ve thirty-five roubles to remit to you, as Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivanovitch at your mamma’s request instructions to that effect, as on previous occasions. Do you know him, sir?”
      “Yes, I remember… Vahrushin,” Raskolnikov said dreamily.
      “You hear, he knows Vahrushin,” cried Razumihin. “He is in ‘an intelligible condition’! And I see you are an intelligent man too. Well, it’s always pleasant to hear words of wisdom.”
      “That’s the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch. And at the request of your mamma, who has sent you a remittance once before in the same manner through him, he did not refuse this time also, and sent instructions to Semyon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you thirty-five roubles in the hope of better to come.”
      “That ‘hoping for better to come’ is the best thing you’ve said, though ‘your mamma’ is not bad either. Come then, what do you say? Is he fully conscious, eh?”
      “That’s all right. If only he can sign this little paper.”
      “He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?”
      “Yes, here’s the book.”
      “Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I’ll hold you. Take the pen and scribble ‘Raskolnikov’ for him. For just now, brother, money is sweeter to us than treacle.”
      “I don’t want it,” said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.
      “Not want it?”
      “I won’t sign it.”
      “How the devil can you do without signing it?”
      “I don’t want… the money.”
      “Don’t want the money! Come, brother, that’s nonsense, I bear witness. Don’t trouble, please, it’s only that he is on his travels again. But that’s pretty common with him at all times though…. You are a man of judgment and we will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his hand and he will sign it. Here.”
      “But I can come another time.”
      “No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment…. Now, Rodya, don’t keep your visitor, you see he is waiting,” and he made ready to hold Raskolnikov’s hand in earnest.
      “Stop, I’ll do it alone,” said the latter, taking the pen and signing his name.
      The messenger took out the money and went away.
      “Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?”
      “Yes,” answered Raskolnikov.
      “Is there any soup?”
      “Some of yesterday’s,” answered Nastasya, who was still standing there.
      “With potatoes and rice in it?”
      “Yes.”
      “I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea.”
      “Very well.”
      Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonishment and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see what would happen. “I believe I am not wandering. I believe it’s reality,” he thought.
      In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the soup, and announced that the tea would be ready directly. With the soup she brought two spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so on. The table was set as it had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean.
      “It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them.”
      “Well, you are a cool hand,” muttered Nastasya, and she departed to carry out his orders.
      Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put his left arm round Raskolnikov’s head, although he was able to sit up, and with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that it might not burn him. But the soup was only just warm. Raskolnikov swallowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumihin suddenly stopped, and said that he must ask Zossimov whether he ought to have more.
      Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.
      “And will you have tea?”
      “Yes.”
      “Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea we may venture on without the faculty. But here is the beer!” He moved back to his chair, pulled the soup and meat in front of him, and began eating as though he had not touched food for three days.
      “I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day now,” he mumbled with his mouth full of beef, “and it’s all Pashenka, your dear little landlady, who sees to that; she loves to do anything for me. I don’t ask for it, but, of course, I don’t object. And here’s Nastasya with the tea. She is a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear, won’t you have some beer?”
      “Get along with your nonsense!”
      “A cup of tea, then?”
      “A cup of tea, maybe.”
      “Pour it out. Stay, I’ll pour it out myself. Sit down.”
      He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa again. As before, he put his left arm round the sick man’s head, raised him up and gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each spoonful steadily and earnestly, as though this process was the principal and most effective means towards his friend’s recovery. Raskolnikov said nothing and made no resistance, though he felt quite strong enough to sit up on the sofa without support and could not merely have held a cup or a spoon, but even perhaps could have walked about. But from some queer, almost animal, cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a time, pretending if necessary not to be yet in full possession of his faculties, and meanwhile listening to find out what was going on. Yet he could not overcome his sense of repugnance. After sipping a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly released his head, pushed the spoon away capriciously, and sank back on the pillow. There were actually real pillows under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed that, too, and took note of it.
      “Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to make him some raspberry tea,” said Razumihin, going back to his chair and attacking his soup and beer again.
      “And where is she to get raspberries for you?” asked Nastasya, balancing a saucer on her five outspread fingers and sipping tea through a lump of sugar.
      “She’ll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all sorts of things have been happening while you have been laid up. When you decamped in that rascally way without leaving your address, I felt so angry that I resolved to find you out and punish you. I set to work that very day. How I ran about making inquiries for you! This lodging of yours I had forgotten, though I never remembered it, indeed, because I did not know it; and as for your old lodgings, I could only remember it was at the Five Corners, Harlamov’s house. I kept trying to find that Harlamov’s house, and afterwards it turned out that it was not Harlamov’s, but Buch’s. How one muddles up sound sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I went on the chance to the address bureau next day, and only fancy, in two minutes they looked you up! Your name is down there.”
      “My name!”
      “I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could not find while I was there. Well, it’s a long story. But as soon as I did land on this place, I soon got to know all your affairs—all, all, brother, I know everything; Nastasya here will tell you. I made the acquaintance of Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and the house-porter and Mr. Zametov, Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head clerk in the police office, and, last, but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasya here knows….”
      “He’s got round her,” Nastasya murmured, smiling slyly.
      “Why don’t you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?”
      “You are a one!” Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into a giggle. “I am not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna,” she added suddenly, recovering from her mirth.
      “I’ll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long story short, I was going in for a regular explosion here to uproot all malignant influences in the locality, but Pashenka won the day. I had not expected, brother, to find her so… prepossessing. Eh, what do you think?”
      Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes fixed upon him, full of alarm.
      “And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect,” Razumihin went on, not at all embarrassed by his silence.
      “Ah, the sly dog!” Nastasya shrieked again. This conversation afforded her unspeakable delight.
      “It’s a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the right way at first. You ought to have approached her differently. She is, so to speak, a most unaccountable character. But we will talk about her character later…. How could you let things come to such a pass that she gave up sending you your dinner? And that I O U? You must have been mad to sign an I O U. And that promise of marriage when her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was alive?… I know all about it! But I see that’s a delicate matter and I am an ass; forgive me. But, talking of foolishness, do you know Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly so foolish as you would think at first sight?”
      “No,” mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that it was better to keep up the conversation.
      “She isn’t, is she?” cried Razumihin, delighted to get an answer out of him. “But she is not very clever either, eh? She is essentially, essentially an unaccountable character! I am sometimes quite at a loss, I assure you…. She must be forty; she says she is thirty-six, and of course she has every right to say so. But I swear I judge her intellectually, simply from the metaphysical point of view; there is a sort of symbolism sprung up between us, a sort of algebra or what not! I don’t understand it! Well, that’s all nonsense. Only, seeing that you are not a student now and have lost your lessons and your clothes, and that through the young lady’s death she has no need to treat you as a relation, she suddenly took fright; and as you hid in your den and dropped all your old relations with her, she planned to get rid of you. And she’s been cherishing that design a long time, but was sorry to lose the I O U, for you assured her yourself that your mother would pay.”
      “It was base of me to say that…. My mother herself is almost a beggar… and I told a lie to keep my lodging… and be fed,” Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly.
      “Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at that point Mr. Tchebarov turns up, a business man. Pashenka would never have thought of doing anything on her own account, she is too retiring; but the business man is by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the question, ‘Is there any hope of realising the I O U?’ Answer: there is, because he has a mother who would save her Rodya with her hundred and twenty-five roubles pension, if she has to starve herself; and a sister, too, who would go into bondage for his sake. That’s what he was building upon…. Why do you start? I know all the ins and outs of your affairs now, my dear boy—it’s not for nothing that you were so open with Pashenka when you were her prospective son-in-law, and I say all this as a friend…. But I tell you what it is; an honest and sensitive man is open; and a business man ‘listens and goes on eating’ you up. Well, then she gave the I O U by way of payment to this Tchebarov, and without hesitation he made a formal demand for payment. When I heard of all this I wanted to blow him up, too, to clear my conscience, but by that time harmony reigned between me and Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the whole affair, engaging that you would pay. I went security for you, brother. Do you understand? We called Tchebarov, flung him ten roubles and got the I O U back from him, and here I have the honour of presenting it to you. She trusts your word now. Here, take it, you see I have torn it.”
      Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked at him and turned to the wall without uttering a word. Even Razumihin felt a twinge.
      “I see, brother,” he said a moment later, “that I have been playing the fool again. I thought I should amuse you with my chatter, and I believe I have only made you cross.”
      “Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?” Raskolnikov asked, after a moment’s pause without turning his head.
      “Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought Zametov one day.”
      “Zametov? The head clerk? What for?” Raskolnikov turned round quickly and fixed his eyes on Razumihin.
      “What’s the matter with you?… What are you upset about? He wanted to make your acquaintance because I talked to him a lot about you…. How could I have found out so much except from him? He is a capital fellow, brother, first-rate… in his own way, of course. Now we are friends—see each other almost every day. I have moved into this part, you know. I have only just moved. I’ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna once or twice…. Do you remember Luise, Luise Ivanovna?
      “Did I say anything in delirium?”
      “I should think so! You were beside yourself.”
      “What did I rave about?”
      “What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about…. Well, brother, now I must not lose time. To work.” He got up from the table and took up his cap.
      “What did I rave about?”
      “How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some secret? Don’t worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot about a bulldog, and about ear-rings and chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent. And another thing that was of special interest to you was your own sock. You whined, ‘Give me my sock.’ Zametov hunted all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented, ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And only then were you comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched thing in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you asked so piteously for fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out what sort of fringe, but we could not make it out. Now to business! Here are thirty-five roubles; I take ten of them, and shall give you an account of them in an hour or two. I will let Zossimov know at the same time, though he ought to have been here long ago, for it is nearly twelve. And you, Nastasya, look in pretty often while I am away, to see whether he wants a drink or anything else. And I will tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Good-bye!”
      “He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he’s a deep one!” said Nastasya as he went out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not resist running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what he would say to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumihin.
      No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, twitching impatience he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to work. But to what work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him.
      “Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet or not? What if they know it and are only pretending, mocking me while I am laid up, and then they will come in and tell me that it’s been discovered long ago and that they have only… What am I to do now? That’s what I’ve forgotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I remembered a minute ago.”
      He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable bewilderment about him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he rushed to the corner where there was a hole under the paper, began examining it, put his hand into the hole, fumbled—but that was not it. He went to the stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; the frayed edges of his trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there just as he had thrown them. No one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock about which Razumihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it lay on the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered with dust and grime that Zametov could not have seen anything on it.
      “Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the police office? Where’s the notice? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was then. I looked at my sock then, too, but now… now I have been ill. But what did Zametov come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?” he muttered, helplessly sitting on the sofa again. “What does it mean? Am I still in delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real…. Ah, I remember; I must escape! Make haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes… but where? And where are my clothes? I’ve no boots. They’ve taken them away! They’ve hidden them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat—they passed that over! And here is money on the table, thank God! And here’s the I O U… I’ll take the money and go and take another lodging. They won’t find me!… Yes, but the address bureau? They’ll find me, Razumihin will find me. Better escape altogether… far away… to America, and let them do their worst! And take the I O U… it would be of use there…. What else shall I take? They think I am ill! They don’t know that I can walk, ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know all about it! If only I could get downstairs! And what if they have set a watch there—policemen! What’s this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a bottle, cold!”
      He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer, and gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a flame in his breast. But in another minute the beer had gone to his head, and a faint and even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the quilt over him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon him. With a sense of comfort he nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped more closely about him the soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the old, ragged greatcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing sleep.
      He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw Razumihin standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as though trying to recall something.
      “Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the parcel!” Razumihin shouted down the stairs. “You shall have the account directly.”
      “What time is it?” asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily.
      “Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it’s almost evening, it will be six o’clock directly. You have slept more than six hours.”
      “Good heavens! Have I?”
      “And why not? It will do you good. What’s the hurry? A tryst, is it? We’ve all time before us. I’ve been waiting for the last three hours for you; I’ve been up twice and found you asleep. I’ve called on Zossimov twice; not at home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. And I’ve been out on my own business, too. You know I’ve been moving to-day, moving with my uncle. I have an uncle living with me now. But that’s no matter, to business. Give me the parcel, Nastasya. We will open it directly. And how do you feel now, brother?”
      “I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you been here long?”
      “I tell you I’ve been waiting for the last three hours.”
      “No, before.”
      “How do you mean?”
      “How long have you been coming here?”
      “Why I told you all about it this morning. Don’t you remember?”
      Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream to him. He could not remember alone, and looked inquiringly at Razumihin.
      “Hm!” said the latter, “he has forgotten. I fancied then that you were not quite yourself. Now you are better for your sleep…. You really look much better. First-rate! Well, to business. Look here, my dear boy.”
      He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested him.
      “Believe me, brother, this is something specially near my heart. For we must make a man of you. Let’s begin from the top. Do you see this cap?” he said, taking out of the bundle a fairly good though cheap and ordinary cap. “Let me try it on.”
      “Presently, afterwards,” said Raskolnikov, waving it off pettishly.
      “Come, Rodya, my boy, don’t oppose it, afterwards will be too late; and I shan’t sleep all night, for I bought it by guess, without measure. Just right!” he cried triumphantly, fitting it on, “just your size! A proper head-covering is the first thing in dress and a recommendation in its own way. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine, is always obliged to take off his pudding basin when he goes into any public place where other people wear their hats or caps. People think he does it from slavish politeness, but it’s simply because he is ashamed of his bird’s nest; he is such a boastful fellow! Look, Nastasya, here are two specimens of headgear: this Palmerston”—he took from the corner Raskolnikov’s old, battered hat, which for some unknown reason, he called a Palmerston—”or this jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what do you suppose I paid for it, Nastasya!” he said, turning to her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak.
      “Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say,” answered Nastasya.
      “Twenty copecks, silly!” he cried, offended. “Why, nowadays you would cost more than that—eighty copecks! And that only because it has been worn. And it’s bought on condition that when’s it’s worn out, they will give you another next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now let us pass to the United States of America, as they called them at school. I assure you I am proud of these breeches,” and he exhibited to Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers of grey woollen material. “No holes, no spots, and quite respectable, although a little worn; and a waistcoat to match, quite in the fashion. And its being worn really is an improvement, it’s softer, smoother…. You see, Rodya, to my thinking, the great thing for getting on in the world is always to keep to the seasons; if you don’t insist on having asparagus in January, you keep your money in your purse; and it’s the same with this purchase. It’s summer now, so I’ve been buying summer things—warmer materials will be wanted for autumn, so you will have to throw these away in any case… especially as they will be done for by then from their own lack of coherence if not your higher standard of luxury. Come, price them! What do you say? Two roubles twenty-five copecks! And remember the condition: if you wear these out, you will have another suit for nothing! They only do business on that system at Fedyaev’s; if you’ve bought a thing once, you are satisfied for life, for you will never go there again of your own free will. Now for the boots. What do you say? You see that they are a bit worn, but they’ll last a couple of months, for it’s foreign work and foreign leather; the secretary of the English Embassy sold them last week—he had only worn them six days, but he was very short of cash. Price—a rouble and a half. A bargain?”
      “But perhaps they won’t fit,” observed Nastasya.
      “Not fit? Just look!” and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov’s old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. “I did not go empty-handed—they took the size from this monster. We all did our best. And as to your linen, your landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with are three shirts, hempen but with a fashionable front…. Well now then, eighty copecks the cap, two roubles twenty-five copecks the suit—together three roubles five copecks—a rouble and a half for the boots—for, you see, they are very good—and that makes four roubles fifty-five copecks; five roubles for the underclothes—they were bought in the lo—which makes exactly nine roubles fifty-five copecks. Forty-five copecks change in coppers. Will you take it? And so, Rodya, you are set up with a complete new rig-out, for your overcoat will serve, and even has a style of its own. That comes from getting one’s clothes from Sharmer’s! As for your socks and other things, I leave them to you; we’ve twenty-five roubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don’t you worry. I tell you she’ll trust you for anything. And now, brother, let me change your linen, for I daresay you will throw off your illness with your shirt.”
      “Let me be! I don’t want to!” Raskolnikov waved him off. He had listened with disgust to Razumihin’s efforts to be playful about his purchases.
      “Come, brother, don’t tell me I’ve been trudging around for nothing,” Razumihin insisted. “Nastasya, don’t be bashful, but help me—that’s it,” and in spite of Raskolnikov’s resistance he changed his linen. The latter sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two said nothing.
      “It will be long before I get rid of them,” he thought. “What money was all that bought with?” he asked at last, gazing at the wall.
      “Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, your mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?”
      “I remember now,” said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence. Razumihin looked at him, frowning and uneasy.
      The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance seemed familiar to Raskolnikov came in.

      CHAPTER IV

      Zossimov was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless, clean-shaven face and straight flaxen hair. He wore spectacles, and a big gold ring on his fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He had on a light grey fashionable loose coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him loose, fashionable and spick and span; his linen was irreproachable, his watch-chain was massive. In manner he was slow and, as it were, nonchalant, and at the same time studiously free and easy; he made efforts to conceal his self-importance, but it was apparent at every instant. All his acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever at his work.
      “I’ve been to you twice to-day, brother. You see, he’s come to himself,” cried Razumihin.
      “I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?” said Zossimov to Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and, sitting down at the foot of the sofa, he settled himself as comfortably as he could.
      “He is still depressed,” Razumihin went on. “We’ve just changed his linen and he almost cried.”
      “That’s very natural; you might have put it off if he did not wish it…. His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still aching, eh?”
      “I am well, I am perfectly well!” Raskolnikov declared positively and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and looked at them with glittering eyes, but sank back on to the pillow at once and turned to the wall. Zossimov watched him intently.
      “Very good…. Going on all right,” he said lazily. “Has he eaten anything?”
      They told him, and asked what he might have.
      “He may have anything… soup, tea… mushrooms and cucumbers, of course, you must not give him; he’d better not have meat either, and… but no need to tell you that!” Razumihin and he looked at each other. “No more medicine or anything. I’ll look at him again to-morrow. Perhaps, to-day even… but never mind…”
      “To-morrow evening I shall take him for a walk,” said Razumihin. “We are going to the Yusupov garden and then to the Palais de Crystal.”
      “I would not disturb him to-morrow at all, but I don’t know… a little, maybe… but we’ll see.”
      “Ach, what a nuisance! I’ve got a house-warming party to-night; it’s only a step from here. Couldn’t he come? He could lie on the sofa. You are coming?” Razumihin said to Zossimov. “Don’t forget, you promised.”
      “All right, only rather later. What are you going to do?”
      “Oh, nothing—tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie… just our friends.”
      “And who?”
      “All neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle, and he is new too—he only arrived in Petersburg yesterday to see to some business of his. We meet once in five years.”
      “What is he?”
      “He’s been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; gets a little pension. He is sixty-five—not worth talking about…. But I am fond of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the head of the Investigation Department here… But you know him.”
      “Is he a relation of yours, too?”
      “A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarrelled once, won’t you come then?”
      “I don’t care a damn for him.”
      “So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a teacher, a government clerk, a musician, an officer and Zametov.”
      “Do tell me, please, what you or he”—Zossimov nodded at Raskolnikov—”can have in common with this Zametov?”
      “Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are worked by principles, as it were by springs; you won’t venture to turn round on your own account. If a man is a nice fellow, that’s the only principle I go upon. Zametov is a delightful person.”
      “Though he does take bribes.”
      “Well, he does! and what of it? I don’t care if he does take bribes,” Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. “I don’t praise him for taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own way! But if one looks at men in all ways—are there many good ones left? Why, I am sure I shouldn’t be worth a baked onion myself… perhaps with you thrown in.”
      “That’s too little; I’d give two for you.”
      “And I wouldn’t give more than one for you. No more of your jokes! Zametov is no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and one must draw him not repel him. You’ll never improve a man by repelling him, especially a boy. One has to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you progressive dullards! You don’t understand. You harm yourselves running another man down…. But if you want to know, we really have something in common.”
      “I should like to know what.”
      “Why, it’s all about a house-painter…. We are getting him out of a mess! Though indeed there’s nothing to fear now. The matter is absolutely self-evident. We only put on steam.”
      “A painter?”
      “Why, haven’t I told you about it? I only told you the beginning then about the murder of the old pawnbroker-woman. Well, the painter is mixed up in it…”
      “Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it… partly… for one reason…. I read about it in the papers, too….”
      “Lizaveta was murdered, too,” Nastasya blurted out, suddenly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door listening.
      “Lizaveta,” murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.
      “Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn’t you know her? She used to come here. She mended a shirt for you, too.”
      Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals and how many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the flower.
      “But what about the painter?” Zossimov interrupted Nastasya’s chatter with marked displeasure. She sighed and was silent.
      “Why, he was accused of the murder,” Razumihin went on hotly.
      “Was there evidence against him then?”
      “Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evidence, and that’s what we have to prove. It was just as they pitched on those fellows, Koch and Pestryakov, at first. Foo! how stupidly it’s all done, it makes one sick, though it’s not one’s business! Pestryakov may be coming to-night…. By the way, Rodya, you’ve heard about the business already; it happened before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the police office while they were talking about it.”
      Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not stir.
      “But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a busybody you are!” Zossimov observed.
      “Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway,” shouted Razumihin, bringing his fist down on the table. “What’s the most offensive is not their lying—one can always forgive lying—lying is a delightful thing, for it leads to truth—what is offensive is that they lie and worship their own lying…. I respect Porfiry, but… What threw them out at first? The door was locked, and when they came back with the porter it was open. So it followed that Koch and Pestryakov were the murderers—that was their logic!”
      “But don’t excite yourself; they simply detained them, they could not help that…. And, by the way, I’ve met that man Koch. He used to buy unredeemed pledges from the old woman? Eh?”
      “Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He makes a profession of it. But enough of him! Do you know what makes me angry? It’s their sickening rotten, petrified routine…. And this case might be the means of introducing a new method. One can show from the psychological data alone how to get on the track of the real man. ‘We have facts,’ they say. But facts are not everything—at least half the business lies in how you interpret them!”
      “Can you interpret them, then?”
      “Anyway, one can’t hold one’s tongue when one has a feeling, a tangible feeling, that one might be a help if only…. Eh! Do you know the details of the case?”
      “I am waiting to hear about the painter.”
      “Oh, yes! Well, here’s the story. Early on the third day after the murder, when they were still dandling Koch and Pestryakov—though they accounted for every step they took and it was as plain as a pikestaff—an unexpected fact turned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a dram-shop facing the house, brought to the police office a jeweller’s case containing some gold ear-rings, and told a long rigamarole. ‘The day before yesterday, just after eight o’clock’—mark the day and the hour!—’a journeyman house-painter, Nikolay, who had been in to see me already that day, brought me this box of gold ear-rings and stones, and asked me to give him two roubles for them. When I asked him where he got them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I did not ask him anything more.’ I am telling you Dushkin’s story. ‘I gave him a note’—a rouble that is—’for I thought if he did not pawn it with me he would with another. It would all come to the same thing—he’d spend it on drink, so the thing had better be with me. The further you hide it the quicker you will find it, and if anything turns up, if I hear any rumours, I’ll take it to the police.’ Of course, that’s all taradiddle; he lies like a horse, for I know this Dushkin, he is a pawnbroker and a receiver of stolen goods, and he did not cheat Nikolay out of a thirty-rouble trinket in order to give it to the police. He was simply afraid. But no matter, to return to Dushkin’s story. ‘I’ve known this peasant, Nikolay Dementyev, from a child; he comes from the same province and district of Zaraïsk, we are both Ryazan men. And though Nikolay is not a drunkard, he drinks, and I knew he had a job in that house, painting work with Dmitri, who comes from the same village, too. As soon as he got the rouble he changed it, had a couple of glasses, took his change and went out. But I did not see Dmitri with him then. And the next day I heard that someone had murdered Alyona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an axe. I knew them, and I felt suspicious about the ear-rings at once, for I knew the murdered woman lent money on pledges. I went to the house, and began to make careful inquiries without saying a word to anyone. First of all I asked, “Is Nikolay here?” Dmitri told me that Nikolay had gone off on the spree; he had come home at daybreak drunk, stayed in the house about ten minutes, and went out again. Dmitri didn’t see him again and is finishing the job alone. And their job is on the same staircase as the murder, on the second floor. When I heard all that I did not say a word to anyone’—that’s Dushkin’s tale—’but I found out what I could about the murder, and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at eight o’clock this morning’—that was the third day, you understand—’I saw Nikolay coming in, not sober, though not to say very drunk—he could understand what was said to him. He sat down on the bench and did not speak. There was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep on a bench and our two boys. “Have you seen Dmitri?” said I. “No, I haven’t,” said he. “And you’ve not been here either?” “Not since the day before yesterday,” said he. “And where did you sleep last night?” “In Peski, with the Kolomensky men.” “And where did you get those ear-rings?” I asked. “I found them in the street,” and the way he said it was a bit queer; he did not look at me. “Did you hear what happened that very evening, at that very hour, on that same staircase?” said I. “No,” said he, “I had not heard,” and all the while he was listening, his eyes were staring out of his head and he turned as white as chalk. I told him all about it and he took his hat and began getting up. I wanted to keep him. “Wait a bit, Nikolay,” said I, “won’t you have a drink?” And I signed to the boy to hold the door, and I came out from behind the bar; but he darted out and down the street to the turning at a run. I have not seen him since. Then my doubts were at an end—it was his doing, as clear as could be….’”
      “I should think so,” said Zossimov.
      “Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and low for Nikolay; they detained Dushkin and searched his house; Dmitri, too, was arrested; the Kolomensky men also were turned inside out. And the day before yesterday they arrested Nikolay in a tavern at the end of the town. He had gone there, taken the silver cross off his neck and asked for a dram for it. They gave it to him. A few minutes afterwards the woman went to the cowshed, and through a crack in the wall she saw in the stable adjoining he had made a noose of his sash from the beam, stood on a block of wood, and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman screeched her hardest; people ran in. ‘So that’s what you are up to!’ ‘Take me,’ he says, ‘to such-and-such a police officer; I’ll confess everything.’ Well, they took him to that police station—that is here—with a suitable escort. So they asked him this and that, how old he is, ‘twenty-two,’ and so on. At the question, ‘When you were working with Dmitri, didn’t you see anyone on the staircase at such-and-such a time?’—answer: ‘To be sure folks may have gone up and down, but I did not notice them.’ ‘And didn’t you hear anything, any noise, and so on?’ ‘We heard nothing special.’ ‘And did you hear, Nikolay, that on the same day Widow So-and-so and her sister were murdered and robbed?’ ‘I never knew a thing about it. The first I heard of it was from Afanasy Pavlovitch the day before yesterday.’ ‘And where did you find the ear-rings?’ ‘I found them on the pavement.’ ‘Why didn’t you go to work with Dmitri the other day?’ ‘Because I was drinking.’ ‘And where were you drinking?’ ‘Oh, in such-and-such a place.’ ‘Why did you run away from Dushkin’s?’ ‘Because I was awfully frightened.’ ‘What were you frightened of?’ ‘That I should be accused.’ ‘How could you be frightened, if you felt free from guilt?’ Now, Zossimov, you may not believe me, that question was put literally in those words. I know it for a fact, it was repeated to me exactly! What do you say to that?”
      “Well, anyway, there’s the evidence.”
      “I am not talking of the evidence now, I am talking about that question, of their own idea of themselves. Well, so they squeezed and squeezed him and he confessed: ‘I did not find it in the street, but in the flat where I was painting with Dmitri.’ ‘And how was that?’ ‘Why, Dmitri and I were painting there all day, and we were just getting ready to go, and Dmitri took a brush and painted my face, and he ran off and I after him. I ran after him, shouting my hardest, and at the bottom of the stairs I ran right against the porter and some gentlemen—and how many gentlemen were there I don’t remember. And the porter swore at me, and the other porter swore, too, and the porter’s wife came out, and swore at us, too; and a gentleman came into the entry with a lady, and he swore at us, too, for Dmitri and I lay right across the way. I got hold of Dmitri’s hair and knocked him down and began beating him. And Dmitri, too, caught me by the hair and began beating me. But we did it all not for temper but in a friendly way, for sport. And then Dmitri escaped and ran into the street, and I ran after him; but I did not catch him, and went back to the flat alone; I had to clear up my things. I began putting them together, expecting Dmitri to come, and there in the passage, in the corner by the door, I stepped on the box. I saw it lying there wrapped up in paper. I took off the paper, saw some little hooks, undid them, and in the box were the ear-rings….’”
      “Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the door?” Raskolnikov cried suddenly, staring with a blank look of terror at Razumihin, and he slowly sat up on the sofa, leaning on his hand.
      “Yes… why? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” Razumihin, too, got up from his seat.
      “Nothing,” Raskolnikov answered faintly, turning to the wall. All were silent for a while.
      “He must have waked from a dream,” Razumihin said at last, looking inquiringly at Zossimov. The latter slightly shook his head.
      “Well, go on,” said Zossimov. “What next?”
      “What next? As soon as he saw the ear-rings, forgetting Dmitri and everything, he took up his cap and ran to Dushkin and, as we know, got a rouble from him. He told a lie saying he found them in the street, and went off drinking. He keeps repeating his old story about the murder: ‘I know nothing of it, never heard of it till the day before yesterday.’ ‘And why didn’t you come to the police till now?’ ‘I was frightened.’ ‘And why did you try to hang yourself?’ ‘From anxiety.’ ‘What anxiety?’ ‘That I should be accused of it.’ Well, that’s the whole story. And now what do you suppose they deduced from that?”
      “Why, there’s no supposing. There’s a clue, such as it is, a fact. You wouldn’t have your painter set free?”
      “Now they’ve simply taken him for the murderer. They haven’t a shadow of doubt.”
      “That’s nonsense. You are excited. But what about the ear-rings? You must admit that, if on the very same day and hour ear-rings from the old woman’s box have come into Nikolay’s hands, they must have come there somehow. That’s a good deal in such a case.”
      “How did they get there? How did they get there?” cried Razumihin. “How can you, a doctor, whose duty it is to study man and who has more opportunity than anyone else for studying human nature—how can you fail to see the character of the man in the whole story? Don’t you see at once that the answers he has given in the examination are the holy truth? They came into his hand precisely as he has told us—he stepped on the box and picked it up.”
      “The holy truth! But didn’t he own himself that he told a lie at first?”
      “Listen to me, listen attentively. The porter and Koch and Pestryakov and the other porter and the wife of the first porter and the woman who was sitting in the porter’s lodge and the man Kryukov, who had just got out of a cab at that minute and went in at the entry with a lady on his arm, that is eight or ten witnesses, agree that Nikolay had Dmitri on the ground, was lying on him beating him, while Dmitri hung on to his hair, beating him, too. They lay right across the way, blocking the thoroughfare. They were sworn at on all sides while they ‘like children’ (the very words of the witnesses) were falling over one another, squealing, fighting and laughing with the funniest faces, and, chasing one another like children, they ran into the street. Now take careful note. The bodies upstairs were warm, you understand, warm when they found them! If they, or Nikolay alone, had murdered them and broken open the boxes, or simply taken part in the robbery, allow me to ask you one question: do their state of mind, their squeals and giggles and childish scuffling at the gate fit in with axes, bloodshed, fiendish cunning, robbery? They’d just killed them, not five or ten minutes before, for the bodies were still warm, and at once, leaving the flat open, knowing that people would go there at once, flinging away their booty, they rolle

  15. Tony says:

    Jack – well done. I said the exact same thing on this Facebook posting.

    Seriously, SF. Grow a pair.

  16. myocardialarrest says:

    It’s not a good idea to try to “subdue” a person on PCP unless you are trained on how, exactly, to do it. I would only try it myself if I had enough time and presence of mind to make a plan with at least 4 other people. Otherwise, I, too, would wait for an officer to assist. I wouldn’t expect to wait 20 minutes. And I’m not saying that it would be easy to watch this person assaulting other people, or that my inclination wouldn’t be to whack the guy over the head with whatever I could find. Sorry, that’s just my take on it.

    • bountious says:

      So you know what to do, you obviously have the resources(other people stuck in the station), but it was too much work for you to try? What a cop-out, pun intended. You know what woulda happened here in Los Angeles? This fool woulda got laid-out. No questions, no “oh, but what if he gets hurt and we’re prosecuted?” Nah, it’s “I ain’t gonna have this guy assaulting people while I just sit around. That shit just isn’t right.”

      I woulda got a group of people together and at-least tried my best to subdue him or keep him away from others. I mean, how would it feel if you were thinking “nah, I’ll just let this blow-over” and that fool comes over to you and starts slapping you or some shit? What, would you not expect your fellow-man to help? People like you make me sad for “society” in the U.S.

      Quit being cowards. Not much more to say.

      • myocardialarrest says:

        Yeah, I would definitely hope someone would stick up for me in this situation. Perhaps I’m cowardly, but I am also slight, gray-haired, and female, and I guess I don’t think I could have taken this naked guy on. But since I wasn’t there, I can’t say that for sure. It really is a shame, though. It doesn’t seem like one man should be able to terrorize a station full of citizens.

      • HRM says:

        well said!

      • Herr Doktor Professor Deth Vegetable says:

        Pff.

      • fish says:

        actually there is a video of this incident floating around on the internet. there was a very kind black gentlemen that came to the aid of a woman that was being assaulted and the old man that was being assaulted. the bart employee brought the woman into the little office and invited the hero man defender in there too. but once the guy (on drugs or just losing his mind au natural) started assaulting another woman the hero ran out of the office and came to her defense as well. the guy never laid him out but he did push him away from the person who was being attacked and helped the person get away. this isn’t just a reply to your comment but to a lot of people who are saying that no one did anything. an ordinary citizen did.. without being overly aggressive… he knew when it was a good time to get in there and help and when it was a good time to back off. he protected himself and several other people. that is definitely commendable behavior.

  17. The corner is a cesspool. The residential hotels, crack dealers and freaks that invade this area are a public nuisance and the SFPD does nothing about it. They were probably responding to a noise complaint in David Campos’ Bernal Heights neighborhood. They should have a command post here even though it is two f’ing blocks from the station. SFPD is too busy protecting their own and shaking down drug dealers to deal with these quality of life issues. What a joke!

  18. Andrew D says:

    Apparently, PCP doesn’t just make you super strong, it also makes you super limber. Those splits are impressive.

    • Tommy says:

      ha ha. Fun to make fun of crazy people. of people that need help. While massive cutbacks are happening. I got mine! Fuck that crazy person MUST BE ON PCP!

  19. Herr Doktor Professor Deth Vegetable says:

    I knew it was only a matter of time before all the Internet ToughGuys would show up to explain just how different it would have been if THEY were there, and how THEY would have taken the guy down a peg if they hadn’t been too busy sitting at home eating Cheetos.

    So fucking pathetic.

    I’d *LIKE* to think that I would have tried to stop the guy if I was there. I really would HOPE that I would. But I wasn’t there, and I can’t fucking KNOW what I would have done in the situation. And neither can any of you fucktards who like to play tough on the intertubes.

    • Tommy says:

      When things like this happen, often none of us react right. It’s a shock. We stand there and go WTF. We actually live in a pretty civil society, despite all the violence our govt does, and what our govt imposes on innocent people here in the borders…and despite massive unemployment. We are doing pretty good in my opinion. So when a crazy , or drug addled person (usually have a mental problem before the drugs….I know from experience of 25 years dealing with street level shit as you probably do), it is a shock. LIfe is not hollywood movies. You think later, “why I should’ve…” ….but human reactions are not like that. We out of compassion/human nature…. don’t want to start beating the fucking shit out of some stranger.

  20. Glenn Ducharme says:

    Why didn’t anyone SHOOT the motherfucker?!

    • fish says:

      shooting an unarmed person isn’t the best idea.
      actually there is a video of this incident floating around on the internet. there was a very kind black gentlemen that came to the aid of a woman that was being assaulted and the old man that was being assaulted. the bart employee brought the woman into the little office and invited the hero man defender in there too. but once the guy (on drugs or just losing his mind au natural) started assaulting another woman the hero ran out of the office and came to her defense as well. the guy never laid him out but he did push him away from the person who was being attacked and helped the person get away. this isn’t just a reply to your comment but to a lot of people who are saying that no one did anything. an ordinary citizen did.. without being overly aggressive… he knew when it was a good time to get in there and help and when it was a good time to back off. he protected himself and several other people. that is definitely commendable behavior.

  21. scum says:

    If this happened on a Google bus the dude would have been taken care real quick.

  22. joe says:

    Just like I figured, half the comments on here are defending this whack job who took God knows what, of his own volition, and assaulted a bunch of people, like he is the victim of ‘society’. Please, that is half the problem with people today, too much sense of entitlement and too little personal accountability. Only sf treats whack jobs like some kind of protected endangered species.

    • Gavin Fielke says:

      He didn’t necessarily take something.
      Mental health breakdowns are a friend to nobody.

      • FranTinkleton says:

        Nonetheless, he was assaulting innocent people peniley and via vulgar, vile gymastication. If San Franciscers weren’t so entirely limp, he would have been twitching in a pool of karmic justice after the first frottage.

  23. Gavin Fielke says:

    Hopefully this man gets access to the mental health services he appears to need

  24. psychrn says:

    He was probably in Psych Emergency at San Francisco General hospital within the last 2 days and released. There are not the resources, the psychiatric services to help someone before they hit this point. I’ll bet someone saw this coming and couldn’t prevent it because the laws are such that you have to be a danger to yourself or others in front of your psychiatrist to be kept in the hospital and even then there may not be an empty bed.

  25. Balboa High Class of '73 says:

    It’s funny what people consider a problem at 16th and Mission nowadays.

  26. bellpeppernostrils says:

    somebody shoulda sucked that niggas dick. thats why he went crazy.

  27. Ellocin says:

    YOU CAN THANK MENTAL HEALTH BUDGET CUTS FOR THIS.

  28. scapegoat says:

    Uh, everybody here your reaction to this bizarre scene is acceptable. If his nekkid splits made you giggle that’s okay and if this incident enraged you because funding for mental hospitals have been cut- that’s okay too. We live in a strange strange world.

    What bugs me though is this constant blame the cops BS. How about blaming the manufacturers of the drugs this fool was on? How about blaming the drug dealers he got that shit from? Some people act as though Cops are supposed to be Super Hero’s who arrive in their capes in a timely fashion to save the day without injuring or killing the perpetrator.

    • marco says:

      Ahh the blame game. Instead of searching high and low for any apt blamable third party… can we just blame the guy who did it for once.

  29. Chalkman says:

    you’d think the cops would have got there sooner considering their fucking police station is only 2 BLOCKS AWAY!

    There should be a permanent police presence at 16th and Mission, SFPD on top, Bart Police below

  30. democrab says:

    Anxiously awaiting Wayne LaPierre/NRA’s “I wonder how many wished they’d had a gun while the naked, aroused, bath salts addict humped and pissed on transit riders with impunity?”

    • Herr Doktor Professor Deth Vegetable says:

      Those nutcases already showed up. See “soonerdriver”‘s comment above.

  31. Mr. Twain Game says:

    Dude is so flexible.

  32. Accountability says:

    Yawn. How about blame it on the culprit himself, the guy who took the PCP, who was causing all the trouble? Nope. We don’t do that anymore these days. We just blame, blame, blame on exterior reasons or entities. Barf.

    • truth says:

      i don’t care if the guy is victim of society or if it’s a shame because the system has failed him or if he needs mental health services that aren’t there . . . the options currently available are to have this dude in jail or have him out on the street violently assaulting women and the elderly . . . i choose the former.

      if we gave a free pass to everyone with mental health problems and environmental strains, prisons would be empty.

  33. Samaritan says:

    Mental health problems??? How about PCP problems?

    Since we’re making assumptions – I assume the bulk of you who are complaining about lack of police presence are the same who would have complained if SFPD(or other) had used physical force to arrest this man. It would likely have been a violent apprehension. Can’t have it both ways…

    I’m more concerned that the general public did not take this man out, especially upon seeing him attack the defenseless. Easy to say when you weren’t there…but I’m still saying it…

    • fish says:

      actually there is a video of this incident floating around on the internet. there was a very kind black gentlemen that came to the aid of a woman that was being assaulted and the old man that was being assaulted. the bart employee brought the woman into the little office and invited the hero man defender in there too. but once the guy (on drugs or just losing his mind au natural) started assaulting another woman the hero ran out of the office and came to her defense as well. the guy never laid him out but he did push him away from the person who was being attacked and helped the person get away. this isn’t just a reply to your comment but to a lot of people who are saying that no one did anything. an ordinary citizen did.. without being overly aggressive… he knew when it was a good time to get in there and help and when it was a good time to back off. he protected himself and several other people. that is definitely commendable behavior.

  34. gregory says:

    those of you with questions/criticisms/ideas for the police should come to the Mission Station Community Meeting. It’s the last tuesday of every month at 6pm at the station on Valencia at 17th. fun times.

    http://sf-police.org/index.aspx?page=819

    although in this case, i suspect the SFPD line will be that it’s the BART police’s job to deal with stuff like this.

  35. Monica says:

    Does no one carry pepper spray, mace or stun gun anymore? Can’t relieve on the cops when your personal safety is in immediate danger, you have to be able to protect yourself. I’d have no problem pepper spraying that guy right in the face. He can enjoy the PCP high running around blind into walls.

  36. raven says:

    if he was white;everyone would have been the special forces;tamil tigers;and the bengal lancers rolled into one;screaming fighting;ratpacking brave citizens all;but he wasnt;so all of the above all ran away;san francisco style

  37. scallywag says:

    Because one way or another we’re all required to come to the bitter grips of our existential essence and all that holds us back and then some…

    http://scallywagandvagabond.com/2013/06/here-is-a-delicious-video-of-dude-on-drugs-at-sf-metro-station-terrorizig-the-world/

  38. vandal says:

    fuck the police.

  39. Keith says:

    Setting aside for the moment the violence and the bodily secretions this little guy is HOT! I mean I’m not Gay (not that there is anything wrong with being gay) Okay I might be like 1/3rd gay but I wish I had that physique. After he gets his mind molecules back in their orbit someone should hire him to model underwear!

  40. Greg says:

    PG&E rejected his résumé but he is in line for “America Got Talent.”

  41. Denise says:

    Moving from NYC one year ago, I have to say I thought I’ve seen everything until I landed in SF. The lack of visible police officers in the city is the #1 problem. The NYPD wouldn’t tolerate half of the behavior that goes on here. And, I’m sorry to say, the men in this city don’t act like real men. That guy didn’t have a weapon and could have been restrained. Drugs or no drugs. The craziness is tolerated here every day!

  42. TW user says:

    Hi, do you have licensing to do this online news site which from Taiwan? it use your this content and translated as commercial use.

    the Taiwanese online news site:
    http://www.ettoday.net/news/20130613/222522.htm

  43. penny says:

    it’s not funny it is super funny
    ROFL!
    and i’ ve seen the hole video. it is ridiculously funny.

  44. Waylan Choy says:

    you guys really need to update this article, as the truth has come out – he is an acrobat who had a nervous breakdown:

    http://gawker.com/naked-bart-man-was-a-circus-acrobat-who-suffered-a-nerv-512919730

    so unfortunately, all the fear and snark, imo, is tainted. is he excused? debatable. but are WE excused for having made our opinions and comments of him, completely out of context?

  45. XLS says:

    All I can say is eeeuuuw. Did someone sanitize that station – turnstiles, railings, etc., after this was over? Doubt it.

    And to the hoplophiles (learned a new word today) who say that a citizen with a gun could have ended this fast, I say that lethal force was not called for in this incident.

  46. damian says:

    IS ANYBODY SICK OF THIS STORY YET;BEEN ON HERE FOR WEEKS AND WEEKS;LONGEST RUNNIN SHIT IVE SEEN ON THIS WEB SITE YET;ARE YOUN ALL HUNG UP LOOKING AT HIS TIGHT BROWN BUTTOCKS OR SOMETHING?? LET IT GO;LET IT FREAKIN GO!!!!!! GET ANOTHER STORY ON THIS SITE FOLKS WE DWELLED ON THIS DITRBAG NUT CASE SEX OFFENDER LONG ENOUGH..WEEK AFTER WEEK AFTER WEEK AINT HAD ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT YET???..WILL SOMEONE WHO IS NOT MASTURBATING TI THIS DITRBAGS PICTURE UP THERE WITH YOUR RAPE FANTASYS GET THIS PIECE OF GARBAGE OFF THIS WEB SITE AND GET SOMETHING MORE INTERESTING..HES A GODDAMN SEX OFFENDER..SICK OF SEEING THIS ON HERE WEEK AFTER WEEK AFTER WEEK..LET IT GO!!!! ITS OVER!!!!

    • Darwin Awards says:

      Sorry for focusing on issues that will ultimately affect us all, in this public forum.

      Would you rather talk about blunts or something? OR TYPE ANOTHER RANT IN ALL CAPS???

      For someone who sees his “brown buttocks” and thinks “rape fantasys,” you sure seem to be coming back to this article a lot. “Weeks” in fact. Stop fucking reading it if you don’t like it.

  47. damian says:

    i dont like it;yea focusing for endless weeks on a scumbag sex offender;really is an important issue for everyone; didnt see your point;so intellectual to keep this scumbag on the site;so ultimately affecting us all;yea right.really a great issue here.scumbag sexually assaults residents;real focus;real pertinent issue of the day.i wonder when you rape fantasy fanatics will get it off the site.your hero i suppose.so relevant to the mission dist.

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